Fate Goes South
by Alori Kesi Aldercy
Summary: Shall We Date?: Princess Arthur; At the battle with Scotland at Gordona, what if Tristan hadn't arrived in time to save the King from Lucius Tiberius? Much is decided in the seconds that pass between choice and action. Trigger warning for the early chapters.
1. Chapter 1

So, it has been a long time since I last wrote creatively. 8 years, to be precise. While it feels good to get back in the saddle, I'm pretty rusty. I have more chapters to this (about 52k worth in words), but I'm going to take my time releasing them; maybe it'll be on a weekly basis?

I placed a trigger warning in the description because there is sexual violence on a woman in a later chapter.

Two weeks ago, I requested a section for Princess Arthur, but it looks like most Shall We Date games are getting dumped under Ninja Love, so here it lives, until updates by FF are provided.

If you haven't played Princess Arthur, you probably won't understand what is going on. This is an alternate ending to Tristan's story and I don't plan on recapping what has happened thus far. Hopefully, I'm not the only Princess Arthur fan who was/is searching for fanfiction. *hugs knees* *cold wind blows*

Con-crit appreciated.

* * *

 _"...If you insist on going to battle, someone will have to be there to protect you. If you stay away from the battlefield, that someone has the freedom to go after the enemies... How can you not comprehend something so simple?"_

Tristan could feel Galahad's eyes piercing his temple.

Under the pink and orange glow of the sun rising at the army's back, his own words clung to him. Even with the temperature of the summer air rising, a chill was prickling in his spine that threatened to send shivers, trembling through his limbs.

"Is something wrong, Tristan?" Galahad's question, though it was asked in his typical, genteel tone as he sidled up to the older man's left flank, broke the trance of deliberation that had been holding him for the majority of the night.

Tristan cleared his throat then flinched his grip on his reigns, uncertain if the sound had given away his deliberation, or his ire at being questioned. Otherwise, he remained calmly poised as the sound of clopping hooves and feet encased in armor struck the seconds away.

"Should I assume you are afraid to face Lucius Tiberius?"

Without wrenching himself in his saddle, Tristan turned his head just enough to shoot the slender Galahad a warning glare. "Of course not." He paused to consider his words. "There are loose ends to be dealt with after this battle."

"You are confident in your victory then." Galahad's face never failed in its expression of bored neutrality.

With a click of his tongue behind his teeth, Tristan considered speeding up his horse to evade the younger knight's inquisition. The nagging in his mind gave him pause. Galahad would not bother him if he did not deem it important. He wondered if the other knight could be feeling the same apprehension that he was and resigned himself to a cautious offering. "Something is amiss."

Galahad's eyebrows rose slightly, the contrasting light and shadow of the early morning barely masking the flicker of worry that crossed his gaze. "Lucius is not an enemy to underestimate."

"Tell me something I don't know," muttered Tristan.

"You are the only one of us who has faced this man."

This return caused Tristan to grunt irritably. "Your reply would seem obtuse to anyone incapable of grasping your humor." Despite the biting remark, he grimaced at the weight of the other knight's comment and continued, "I'm not his fortune teller, regardless of having met him in battle."

With an intake of breath that could be construed as regret, Galahad gripped the reigns of his horse. "We must use all of our resources to prevent loose ends, as you say." As if to apologize, he continued, "I had hoped you would let me ponder any particular details that troubled you. If there are none, then my feeling is only a nagging fear and I must remain determined that we shall not fail."

The young man gave a slow nod and Tristan resigned himself to say nothing further. His regret over having a boorish mouth around the girl-king was a gut feeling; as Galahad said aptly, the nagging of fear egged on by guilt. He swallowed a dry throat and straightened himself in his saddle. "Thank you for your inspiring words." He clicked his heels into his horse's sides, spurring him to catch up to Lancelot, Gawain, and Perceval at the front of the column.

When Tristan was out of earshot, Galahad released an unsatisfied huff of agitation.

As his horse trotted to meet up with the front line, Tristan's mind wandered again to the words he had spoken to the young waif who served as their king. Something so simple, indeed, he thought. They needed more information about the movements of the Scottish army, but their scouts had one by one failed to return since they had departed early last night and had left behind their so-called king at the camp. His stomach turned at the thought of her. She was a distraction; he insisted inwardly, his concern should be with Lucius.

The notorious Scotsman was a key to his investigations of the past several months. Lucius's usurpation of the Scottish throne from King Oswald only appeared unrelated to other recent and closer events. In a significant turn, Lady Morgause, late King Uther's sister, had announced a pending engagement with King Tarquin of Wales. The entire round had been suspicious of her motives, but their concerns ended at her current ploys to gain power. There was a much darker shadow from her past that he was pursuing in secret. He had been the only one to throw support behind Morgause's potential nuptials, intentionally concealing his doubts so that he could investigate covertly. He often felt his position precarious, that many eyes watched him as he asked questions and tallied the truths he learned. The new king, if she could seriously be referred to as such, seemed to constantly stumble upon him, endangering the both of them with her clumsy questions and wide-eyed curiosity. She had become more reliable after the uprising at Elyngor, handling matters with a delicacy he had once thought impossible for her, but he doubted it would be enough to protect them both.

With that thought, he arrived at the front.

"Any news from the scouts?" Tristan cast his gaze directly to Lancelot with a shallow hope that the others would refrain from entering such an obviously directed conversation.

"None whatsoever." Lancelot's tone was curt but dignified, an echo of his posture in the saddle. "I have decided not to sentence any other men to death. We will gather what information we can when we arrive at visual distance."

Tristan grimaced. "We are at a disadvantage."

"Do you have some idea, then, of what his plan might be?" Lancelot's reply came with a deepening of his voice, lowered to a point that made Tristan and the other knights lean in to catch his words. "If you do," the leader of the round table gestured to the other knights at his sides.

Tristan avoided looking between the raised eyebrows and drawn mouths of the other two by keeping his gaze locked straight ahead.

Lancelot nodded in the silence. "Then I believe we have done what is best to prepare. We will win, Tristan. Our king needs us-"

"Your king," Tristan spat out bitterly, "I am here for my country." The impulsivity of his own response startled him. He noted a similar reaction from Gawain.

"As we all are," Lancelot replied dryly.

Tristan pursed his lips, struggling for a response that would recover his dignity when a shout from their youngest round table member, Perceval, drew their attention away. "Scotland is there!"

All at the front immediately turned their heads, the awaiting lines of Scotsmen, already assembled, coming into view on the crest of a hill. The murmurs of the men of rank and file decayed into an excited clamor. Their steps grew shallow as the army's momentum ground down, the men at the front digging in their heels to approach no further.

Tristan observed the rolling fields before them, as well as the uphill advantage Scotland had obtained. He threw one last harsh glance at Lancelot, who seemed not to notice him as he shouted orders. Tristan fanned out to the right as the ranks jerkily filed into position.

If he could not figure out the plot, then he would need to find and kill Lucius before he had the chance to enact it. As his anxiety whittled away his patience, the bearded knight drew his sword and muddled his grip on the hilt. He had known full well that it would be no easy task to find one man in this expanse, regardless of their positions. It was always much more daunting to actualize the ides of war.

Time quickened its pace.

Before long, Tristan found himself slashing and cutting enemies with a fury he often wished to forget that he had. Hours into the fray, in the early evening, he had yet to see a single member of the line of Scottish commanders. That nagging, panicked feeling in his gut was growing hot and labored along with his breath. It prodded him frantically. He felt pressured and lost, as if he was in the wrong place, wasting precious time.

With one last blow to an attacking enemy soldier, Tristan kicked his heels into the sides of his horse and took off across the field towards the west side of the battle. Hopefully, someone else had seen Lucius.

It took some time and maneuvering to make his way but he eventually found himself beside Lancelot, Gawain, Perceval, and Bors, who had formed a triangle of attack.

"Have you seen him?" Tristan could hear the panic that had set in to his own voice. He made no effort to quell it.

Bors glanced up with some surprise registering at Tristan's arrival. "We thought you would have found him by now." He grunted as his daggers downed an enemy with quick, successive slashes.

Tristan felt a pang of agitation.

Galahad rode up in a burst, knocking down a soldier in his path with sword and hoof. "The commanders... Lucius is not with them."

The knights looked pensive as they registered the look of concern that passed between Tristan and Galahad.

Tristan's pangs of agitation turned to stone, realization striking him in the instant and his face turned to the south.

"Lucius is not on this battlefield, " Galahad continued, "he must be after the-"

Tristan's horse burst into a gallop in a southern direction.

Lancelot wheeled around on his heel. "We have been deceived? Galahad, are you certain Lucius is not here?"

"Quite. I saw our scout, the first we sent out, with the Scottish commanders. He betrayed us. I suspect he killed or helped to capture those who came after."

The knights looked to the vanishing form of Tristan as he rode away.

Gawain's mighty axe thudded into an enemy with exemplary force. "You mean that bastard Tiberius doesn't have the guts to face us?"

"Not exactly," cried Lancelot, "Galahad, will you go wi-?"

In a burst of speed, Galahad followed Tristan's lead, disappearing in the direction of the camp.


	2. Chapter 2

Night was arriving for the first time since the army had left for Gordona. There had been nothing to do for the past day except worry and cook for the small band of medics and servants that remained at their camp. Ellessah felt the redundancy weighing on her spirit. It was almost worse than not coming along at all. Had she stayed in Camelot she might have idled her days studying, or visiting with Elaine, instead of with strangers, apprehensive, powerless and concerned.

Ellessah stirred a pot of vegetable soup as she considered what sort of fight the army and knights might be engaged in at that very moment. Surely the battle had been raging for many hours by this time. A nervous pang bit her at her core, squeezing her heart. Were they safe? Were Gawain and Perceval being reckless?

Was Tristan fighting Lucius?

The young king clasped her hands together and prayed fervently. "Everyone," she called into the darkening, ombre sky overhead, "win, and come back." Her words felt faint and weak on the fleeting breeze, though they burned in her heart. She prayed again before slumping over her knees dejectedly.

Not that she was unhappy, in the meantime, to have met a medic who had been a soldier injured at the battle of Elyngor. A conversation she had held with him, where he confessed his growing faith in her rule, had cheered and encouraged her. He had not given up the fight, though he could no longer wield a sword himself, and had found his own way to support their effort. She smiled gently at the thought of his earnest words. His uneasiness about her age had been upended when he had witnessed her slay Zamedoth, the second in command of the rebellion. He also held common ground with her wishes to bring long-term peace to the kingdom. She silently clenched her fists and cheered the spreading of the movement. It was her truth. She would happily spend her entire reign in search of peace, even if it were never to come to pass.

The soup began to bubble as its smell overcame the rampant smell of grass and horses. Battles could take hours, or days, she had realized earlier while cutting potatoes. It would be a long second night at the very least, waiting for an answer to her appeals.

Ellessah had determined to start in on another round of prayers when a sudden cry and the sound of wood being splintered drew her attention. She stood as she witnessed the medic from earlier, limping towards her at an ambling run.

"It's an enemy soldier! Get away!"

The medic's eyes opened wide in terror, his head wrenching around on his shoulders, as a figure rushed out from behind a tent and stabbed the man without slowing his clip. The medic crumpled, a scream splitting the king's lips in the instant.

Clumsily, her hand began to search for the hilt of her sword. The belt had turned awkwardly behind her back and she could not draw her eyes away from the sight of the tall, ominous man as he crossed the campground in a few long strides. In the last moments before he was face to face with her, she realized her folly in struggling too long with the belt and stumbled back, frantically considering escape plans.

The stranger sneered at her with a wide smirk of contempt. "Good evening, young lady." His voice was deep, highlighted by mocking crescendos. "Don't look so frightened. I'm not here to kill you."

"Who are you?" Ellessah asked though she rebuked herself inwardly for not fleeing instead. He was too close now.

"Ah. Forgive me. We have yet to be introduced." The man tossed back greasy clumps of long hair from his eyes with a snap of his head before grinning wildly at her once more. "I am the Commander of the Scottish Army."

"Lucius!" Ellessah observed the wide, strong build of her adversary. He was almost a charmingly, good-looking man, were it not for the gleam in his expressions that twisted his glee into a wicked ecstasy.

"I see we can forgo further introductions." Lucius looked amply pleased at the development. He crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back to sneer down his nose at the girl-king who barely stood up to his chest.

"What are you doing here?" she stammered out.

"But, of course, I've come to pay homage to you, the newly crowned King of Britain."

Ellessah stepped back instinctively, drawing one clenched fist up to her chest.

"There's no need for you to be so guarded," Lucius said, seeming disappointed for the first time since he had arrived, "seeing as I've been on my best behavior."

"Why are you here?" she asked worriedly. "You should be at the battle."

For a moment, Ellessah considered the worst. It seemed so unlikely; the whole army defeated already? She glanced at the downed medic, a distance away, silently praying that he still lived.

Lucius had hesitated to reply, drinking in her rapidly shifting expressions with every passing second. "We had an informant," he whispered coldly. "A very nice person who shared that you would not be on the battlefield; that you would remain here, at camp. So, I decided to come see you." He took in her shift from inward concern to outward fear. "My men are more than capable of handling the Knights of the Round Table. My business is here, with you, and that sword." He made a deceptively shy gesture towards it.

Ellessah inhaled sharply and retreated backwards with quick, graceless steps, hands working to right the position of her sword on her waist.

The formidable commander's expression turned from ecstasy to annoyance as he followed her retreat with heavy footfall. "Why are you trying to escape me? Have I harmed you in any way?"

In a moment, the girl-king had turned to run and, with only a few steps in an Eastward direction, found herself spun back around, Lucius's brawny hands clenching her shoulders like a vice. She cried out, her arms flinging upward to push him away, "Let go of me, you bastard!"

"But I haven't done anything to you," Lucius exclaimed woefully. Then his face lit with a malicious fire, "Yet!"

"Let go!"

Ignoring her thrashing and protest, Lucius began to drag her back to the center of the open field, away from the tent line. "This is what I propose, Your Majesty. Surrender to Scotland immediately, and give our country the Holy Sword. I know that the sword has been passed down in Britain for generations. I also know that whoever is chosen by the sword becomes the king. But, if the country were to change, perhaps the person chosen by the sword would also change?"

She cried out and kicked him, freeing one arm. With it she drew and thrust the sword at Lucius's throat. "You don't think I'd willingly accede to your demands, do you?"

"I see you wish to be difficult, young lady. I didn't come here with the intent to use force." He bent his head to press his throat more firmly against the tip of her blade and eyed her menacingly. "I'll repeat myself just one more time. Surrender immediately and hand over the sword."

"No."

In a flash, Lucius's blade had swung and knocked the Holy Sword from its precarious position at his throat. The force of the blow sent waves of pain through the bones of the girl-king's arms. He swung again to strike at her sword-baring arm, which she twisted to narrowly parry.

"An impressive maneuver! Alas, you leave me no choice. I'm afraid that's as far as you'll get. Your dainty body is no match for me!"

A sharp, debilitating pain in her leg overtook her with the next strike of Lucius's weapon. As if blown away, Ellessah fell backward to the ground, blood spurting from a fresh wound on her thigh. The Holy Sword dropped from her grasp a foot away. The shock of the wound left her dizzy and unable to focus as she struggled to brace herself for his next move.

Lucius approached, kneeled, and leaned in closely. "Swords are not meant for women," he hissed.

"Bastard!" Ellessah groaned.

"A woman belongs wrapped in silk, waiting silently in bed for her man." Lucius grasped her by a clump of hair on the back of her head and pulled her nose-to-nose with him, straining her back. "Run, if you want," he sneered, "but as soon as you get up and start to run, I'm going to slash your tendons once and for all. You'll never run again. Your right hand will follow. So that you never hold a sword again." His hot, labored breath stifled Ellessah and choked her as fear rose in her throat. "You're so beautiful, it would be a shame to kill you. If you stop resisting, I'll take you home and make you my wife. What do you say?"

"You're out of your mind."

With a sigh, Lucius released his grasp on her hair. "I see there's a reason a woman like you managed to wield the sword. You've got spirit, but-"

His hot, rough hand slid up her thigh, his thumb brushing over her hip bone. At her startled, half-strangled whimper, he smiled wickedly.

"Ah... Still a virgin, I see. This will be fun. Such beautiful, fair skin. I'm going to enjoy staining it with blood." Lucius lifted his sword to her throat, his face pressing even closer.

"Please..." Ellessah could hardly believe the pitiful whisper was her own, as a tear broke free and dribbled down her cheek.

Lucius's grin spread as if to part his jaw from his skull. "Ask me again. Beg me for your worthless life." In a sudden thrust, his tongue lashed out and licked up her tear.

Ellessah's body went rigid. In a moment of mental clarity she considered her time as a king. She recalled the faces of each Knight, she thought about the Holy Sword-now inches from her hand, and she thought about Britain and the turmoil Tristan had forewarned of if her reign were to end early at this tumultuous time. She closed her eyes to the assault of hot breath on her face and time seemed to slow down. She could see paths out of this. She did not know where the knights were now, or if anyone was aware of her danger, but she knew what needed to be done.

The sword; it had to be hidden and kept from Lucius. Her life would be worthless if she failed at that.

She could hear Cavall, late King Uther's horse, rustling anxiously, gnawing on his tie line.

Lucius was growing impatient. She could feel him trying to rile her to a response, his hands beginning to search up her legs under her skirt. He was murmuring snidely to her. What, she cared not to make out. He had relinquished his sword; only inches from his hand, it remained a threat. She needed to distract him a little longer. Words she could have never imagined saying came to her like a dream.

"Is there nothing else I can trade you for my worthless life? I am inexperienced but I could give myself to you freely."

The Scottish Commander's hands slowed their progress up her leg. "Would you? As exciting a proposition as that sounds, the sword is obviously better than that."

"I would-" she hesitated before continuing, "I could be your wife, if you would let me remain King of Britain. I would be your puppet and rule in your stead, obeying your every command." She forced her gaze at him to become wistful. "Please, Lucius, spare me. I will work hard to please you."

Laughter erupted from Lucius's throat like a volcano, shaking her trembling body, as she lay trapped between his knees. "My god," he crowed, "you are a funny one! I don't see why you think I would believe you, or how that could appeal to me more than killing you and taking the sword for myself. But I am enjoying this! Beg me, Your Majesty. Beg me with all of the despair in your heart. I may pity you, or-" He trailed off, his hands slipping under her skirt and grasping her hips firmly. "Try; you'll see."

Ellessah felt his wide, hot mouth press against hers, and she gave in to him as his fingers dug mercilessly into her hips and thumbs into her abdomen. She stifled a squeal as she kissed him, gingerly offering her tongue when his demanded it. The moment stretched on into what felt like minutes. He tasted musky, like a wet dog might smell after a night in the rain. Every move of his mouth churned her stomach with her anger and disgust.

Finally, he leaned back, narrow eyes regarding her entirety. "That was nice of you." His hand released its grip on her hip and trailed back down. "But I preferred it when you were feisty." The hand clamped cruelly over the bleeding gash on her leg, eliciting a scream.

With effort, her awareness of the pain was clenched back until her voice became strangled and the scream became a pleading moan, "Cavall!"

The former king's horse sprang to life. It had chewed through its tie line and now charged at the pair at full speed. Lucius had only a moment to realize the horse's approach before it struck him. As Ellessah was relieved of his downward weight on her body, she rolled and tucked the Holy Sword against her, sheathing it as she stood. She nearly crumpled again as she leaned into her injured leg, but Cavall was there in time and took her weight. Barely aware of her own actions, her adversary now cursing and scrambling towards her with sword in hand, she swung up onto the horse bareback and they took off at a gallop with her clinging desperately to his neck.

"Thank you, friend," she murmured as she struggled to maintain consciousness and grip.

The pair disappeared through the rows of tents and into the eastern forest as Lucius angrily kicked over the still boiling pot of soup. The fire hissed.

"Scotsmen! To me!"

Three men burst out from the other side of the camp, Lucius's horse in tow. He mounted and the group took off in the direction Ellessah had escaped.

"Spread out and don't let her get away. Kill her if you must."

* * *

I obviously kept a large portion of the scene from the game, but changed it at the point when Tristan would have arrived, after Lucius gets our dear Alu/Ellessah injured and at his mercy.

I don't own or claim any of that text as my own, but it was necessary to include it in order to show how this reality deviates.

If you haven't played the game, you should. The art is beautiful.


	3. Chapter 3

So, I got distracted and instead of working on this, ended up finishing and posting a story I had started years ago. But, I have over 50k words for this already. I simply need to fill in some gaps I left and do a ton of editing. I revamped and replaced the first two chapters along with posting this one, so it's definitely a work in progress to me. Feel free to offer con-crit, because I love that stuff.

Lastly, _**TRIGGER WARNING**_ , because it gets messy in this chapter and the next.

* * *

Tristan counted the hours since they had left camp. How long had Lucius known of their oversight? He was faster on the return than the army had taken to get to the field of battle, but he could not figure if it would be fast enough.

He thought, perhaps, one of the knights had meant to follow him, but he had not caught sight of anyone behind him, four hours into the ride. His horse was exhausted, he could feel the immense strain he was putting him through. Louder still, his own heartbeat in his ears echoed a strange and intense worry that consumed his focus.

He burst through the edge of the forest into the northern edge of the camp with a clatter of hooves that scrambled to break their speed. The quiet of the night was almost oppressive as he anxiously hoped for a cheerful girl-king to appear and welcome him. He slowed his horse, which wheezed painfully as it took trembling steps over the terrain. Tristan jumped down and left the horse to wander through the encampment as he rushed to the center.

"Your highness!"

He saw the fire, smoldering weakly. There was an overturned pot of soup beside it.

A body! His throat tightened until he recognized the medic garb of the man who lay by the western tent line, a knife in his back. He rushed to the man's side, turning him over and checking for signs of life. The man coughed and spat up blood.

"Where is Lady Ellessah?" Tristan demanded, uncertain if the medic was actually awake.

The man's eyes blinked groggily. "The King-?" He coughed more blood and weakly turned his eyes to the east. " She is—she fought him off. The horse took her not long ago." The medic's voice failed as he coughed up more blood.

Tristan looked to the tree where Cavall had been tied. Sure enough, a rope, roughly severed, hung from the limb where he had last seen the King's horse. "She went to the east?" He nearly shouted at the medic, though he did not stir. "Did Lucius go after her?"

The sound of soft footsteps behind him made him twist, bow drawn.

"My, Lord," another medic said in a choked, fearful voice as he approached from the tents, "I failed the King! I was too afraid—I'm sorry! Slay me where I stand as punishment, or I will help that man if you will allow me."

Tristan's grip on his bow softened, though his face remained stern. The medic's false humility would be a nuisance to deal with later. "Did you see where they went? How many?"

"I was hiding under the blankets in my tent—I am so ashamed! From the sound of the hooves, there could not have been more than five. That evil man, Lucius, he leads the chase." The medic dropped several bundles of cloth onto the grass and knelt by his injured peer. With a show of gusto, he pulled him into his lap. "I will see to him." He gestured Tristan away emphatically. "You must save her majesty!"

Tristan stood quickly and clicked his tongue to call his horse, which trotted over, less breathless than before. "I'm sorry you have no courage. Pray I am not too late."

The medic frowned, seeming to feel a wave of guilt before swallowing it quickly back. He threw up a hand. "Wait! My, Lord, that man; he wounded her. Take some bandages!" The medic quickly pushed a bundle of cloth from the pile into Tristan's hands.

As Tristan turned away to stuff the supplies into his pack, the medic continued babbling, more to himself, continuing even as Tristan placed one foot in a stirrup.

"I heard her cries," the medic moaned miserably, "he was tormenting her."

Tristan froze, his grip tight on the horn of his saddle. "Do what you can for him," he muttered gruffly, "I will not abandon her to Lucius." With a swift toss of his leg, he mounted the horse. "Tell any who follow after me where I have gone. I see horse tracks that lead off to the eastern forest. You will do well not to disturb them so that others may follow."

"Of course, my Lord," the medic said gravely, "God speed."

* * *

Cavall catapulted his rider swiftly through the thicket and foliage. At times, the branches whipped them both, and Ellessah clung desperately to neck and mane against the bouncing of the horse's stride. She could feel herself steadily losing strength as she bled from her wound, expending energy to keep up with the horse's pace. "A little faster, Cavall," she urged him weakly. "We protect Britain's future."

Even more concerning, was the slowly consuming numbness in her thigh that was spreading through her leg and up into her hip. For some time, she had heard the pounding of hooves and voices behind her but there had been no sound of pursuit for some time now.

Now she spied what she had been waiting for and urged Cavall to stop. As if he knew what she wanted, he slowed gently, so as not to throw her from his back, then trotted back to the spot she had seen.

Ellessah slid down, nearly collapsing entirely to the forest floor. A rock jutting out from the dirt met her leg at the shin as it crumpled. The leg spurted a fresh ounce of blood from its now crusty wound and she hissed from the pain of it. After regaining her footing, she wrenched the Holy Sword from its sheath. A tree to their right appeared to be two large oaks that had grown together, joined at their trunks. The seam was barely wide enough to slip the Holy Sword inside, and even so, it took much of her strength to push it deep enough that it was barely visible. Desperately, she began scraping up dirt and twigs and stuffing them into the seam to mask what remained to shine in the moonlight. When she was finally done, she limped back to Cavall's side.

A valiant attempt to throw her leg up over the horse's back nearly put her on the forest floor. She kept from sinking to her knees by grabbing hold of the reigns and refusing to straighten her arms. Cavall whinnied his objection to the strain on his neck so she struggled upright until she could lean into his side instead to catch her breath, legs trembling. Sensing that she would not recover, she slipped off her belt and sheath with one hand and looped them around Cavall's neck. "One more journey for me, dear friend," she whispered, wondering if he understood. "Take me away from this place and if my weight pains you—I am sorry."

The girl-king grasped the belt with one hand and threaded her other arm through the loop to the elbow until she could lean her weight onto the belt under her arm. The horse hesitated as she slipped off of her feet, and then took to a gentle, but brisk walk on her command. Time dragged on as she did, across rock and around tree, and unable to tell how far they traveled in this manner, she dragged along beside him until she lost her grip and collapsed onto the forest floor. "That is far enough," she admitted breathlessly, "leave me here."

Cavall turned back to nose Ellessah anxiously. She pushed him away and pointed toward what she figured was west. "Back to camp with you." The horse nudged her again, an agitated whinny escaping him as she pushed his head away with a pumping motion. "You must bring help. Understand me? Go back to camp!"

With a snort, the King's horse turned west at last. He perked his head, ears twitching as Ellessah lay behind him, panting and continuing to lose feeling in her leg and beginning in her torso. Without another sound, Cavall took off at a gentle trot, his movement as quiet as a horse could be among dead leaves and branches.

Once the horse was out of sight, Elessah clenched her teeth against a groan and her trembling arms and dragged her half numb body to a wide tree where she sat herself upright on the southeastern side. There was nothing more she could do except lay still and await fate's decision. Weaponless, horseless, and weak, she knew her chances if discovered again by the enemy were bleak. If she died, she was not sure if Cavall would be able to find his way back to the Holy Sword. It was up to the knights now, wherever they were.

What seemed a span of half an hour later or more, Ellessah began to realize that she had been going in and out of consciousness. She was sixty percent numb and moving was no longer an option. Based on the lunar movements, she guessed it was a little past midnight now. Perhaps no one was looking for her. Lucius might have given up and the knights could still be at war, unaware of her peril. She trembled at the thought. The stress and fear had distracted her for much of the evening but she could tell that hunger pangs and a desperate thirst were setting in swiftly. There could be wild animals too, she thought anxiously. Slipping from consciousness once more, she wondered what her father and Elaine would be doing at this hour in Camelot.

* * *

A warm hand touched her shoulder. She inhaled sharply, barely stirring.

"Your majesty?"

Ellessah lifted her arm to touch the hand, but nothing happened. Her arm was completely numb, she realized, her senses coming to.

"Young lady, this is no place for a nap."

At the sound of Lucius's voice, the girl-king's eyes snapped open.

"Ah. You are alive. For a moment I feared I had mixed the poison too strongly. How are you feeling?" His face, sure enough, was relaxed and satisfied at meeting her gaze.

She had thought, earlier, that if this situation would come to pass, that she would lose all sense and hope. Unexpectedly, she felt calm and peaceful, with no urge to reply.

Lucius chuckled and stood, stepping back from his crouch in front of her, which opened her view to the men standing behind him. "Did any of you find the horse yet? She doesn't have the sword."

A dark haired, scowl-faced man spoke. "I saw the horse, my Lord Tiberius. But I could not intercept him before he escaped. I saw the sheath and belt, but there was no hilt, that I could tell."

"Very well. As I expected, she has hidden it somewhere in the forest. Go and look for it. The pair seems to have come here from that direction, based on the tracks."

"Yes, Lord." The three henchmen mounted horses she could not see and the sounds of twigs snapping faded into the forest.

Lucius returned his attention to Ellessah, a slight smile on his face. "My men are master huntsmen and trackers. They will find your silly hiding place. Now, what do you say to picking up where we left off at the camp?"

Ellessah sighed softly and tipped her head back to look up at the slivers of night sky through the boughs. She made no reply.

"Is that so?"

A sharp sound reverberated against the tree trunks in their small circle. Immediately, pain flared and burned across her cheek from his hand striking her. He grabbed her by the throat, dragging her up the tree trunk until she was nearly standing. The bark and knotholes of the tree scraped her and cut her dress. Something warm dripped down the groove of her spine, a sensation that made time seem to slow to a painful grind.

"You will listen to me, young lady. You will not withstand my tortures. You will wish to give up your worthless life. Tell me where the sword is and I can relieve you of what displeasures will otherwise come to you."

Ellessah felt her eyes darken, blurring as tears filled their crevices. "No one is worthless, Lucius" she rasped out between gasps for air, "not one life."

"Fool! Those who have not strength, have no meaning in this world. The strong control the weak. That is why we are here. I deserve the power of the Holy Sword because even those who do not fear me have not the strength to kill me. Jailing me? Ha! Clearly, here I am, a free and powerful man despite anyone else's desires." His cruel expression twisted with bitter anger as his grip on her throat increased. She began to feel light headed, but before she could faint, he threw her to the forest floor.

Sooner than she could gather her senses, he was on top of her. His hands roughly spread her legs so he could kneel in the space between them. In another moment, his sword, cold and unforgiving, was sliding up her skirt and she cried out in horror as he ripped it away, slicing the fabric to the waist. The tip of his blade tapped her stomach.

"Shall I gut you slowly? I can start with a thin cut, repeatedly slicing until your insides are outsides. That way your body is marred only in one place. You could still have a proper funeral." He tilted his head, as he took in her expression, neutral and cold. "What about your face? I can shred the very skin off your bones and you will live for quite sometime before the infection and maggots claim you for the dirt. Better yet-"

Ellessah knew what was about to happen before it did, she struggled not to flinch, though a pitiful cry escaped her tight lips. Lucius's sword found the remaining cloth on the front of her dress and sliced through it cleanly. The tatters fell away, revealing her torso to him. Still numb, she could do little except wriggle a few toes uncomfortably. He threw his sword to one side and his hands found the flesh of her belly, sliding their way up until they found her chest. Had she thought his hands were warm earlier? They were cold now.

"Before I do anything else, I think I should do my best to enjoy you. After all, even if somehow you were to survive this, for the king to be ravaged by an enemy commander—for shame! You could never face the judgment of your people. How could a spoiled king ever carry a Holy Sword? Who would marry you and how would you produce heirs?"

Lucius's wild eyes drank her in. His head rose in his triumph over her, face grinning wildly. It appeared from her angle to nearly separate from his shoulders altogether. As he threw himself down onto her, his mouth violating her chest, she found herself unwillingly wailing at the top of her lungs. His hand jammed into her mouth, threatening the aperture of her throat as his fingers stroked her tongue and inner cheeks.

"Now, now, try to not excite me too much. That won't make it better for you." Just as abruptly, he removed the hand, wiping her saliva across her cheek and into her hair. He resumed the tortuous movements of his mouth, moving lower until he had reached the edge of her private, lower hairline. "You can stop me anytime. Tell me where the sword is."

Horrified and exhausted, Ellessah shook her head vigorously, tears rolling down the sides of her face. It did not matter how frightened she felt, his touch was barely tangible from the overwhelming numbness.

At least, that's what she began to tell herself over and over again as she pinned her gaze to the sky.

Lucius chuckled as he lowered his mouth and breathed his warm, moist air between her legs. "Suit yourself."


	4. Chapter 4

I've always liked the idea of a relationship with a slightly older man. My best friend married a 30 year old man at 23 and his mom had married a 50 year old at 35. There is something romantic to me about the notion of two soul mates, born nearly too far apart to consider each other seriously, still finding a way together.

On the other hand, my husband is a year younger than me. (Luckily, he is an old soul!)

I never could get older guys to notice me. It's partially because I have a "baby face".

A girl can dream though. And write.

* * *

His emotions had overcome his self-awareness. Tristan could hear himself traipsing through the woods like a wild boar, but he could not endure to slow his pace in order to quiet it. The tracks had become muddled with hooves of various sizes and directions, so he had been forced to dismount in an attempt to better read them. Eventually, he was able to determine that at least five different horses had crossed the area at some point in the night.

Tristan cursed himself for getting distracted. Where Cavall had gone, was the only important question. Nearly an hour in, he felt like he had been forced to backtrack more often than to move forward and he was thoroughly resenting the painstaking efforts that Scotland had taken to cover her path of flight. This had been no unexpected hunt on Lucius's part.

His eyes were growing weary from the search, but his desperation was increasing equivocally.

Abruptly, the tracks disappeared. The area was rocky and mossy. Four of the tracks went off in random directions, as if they had become lost at this point, and none were Cavall's. He followed the direction of Cavall's last seen prints quickly rediscovering them. Continuing in that same direction would produce signs of their progress even though the prints faded in areas.

"A body was dragged limply here," he muttered.

There, blood lay drying, spattered on rock and moss.

"She dismounted here. Why would she?" Tristan trailed off as he turned on his heel to survey the woods. It was possible she had become too weary to continue and had fallen off of Cavall, but the circling hoof and footprints indicated she had been on her feet for some time here. Near one large oak tree, the ground had been scraped away a little but a quick search of the tree and its surrounding neighbors produced nothing. He felt lost, as if he was missing something obvious. Finally, he shook his head at himself. "Whatever she was doing must have been important to her, but I cannot read her mind. Clawing at dirt when she should have been hurrying to escape?"

Tristan returned to his horse and the tracks where the body began to be dragged, here they turned further southeast. As he prepared to depart, a scream echoed from a distance in the direction the tracks went. He mounted with haste and kicked the horse into a gallop, hopeful that time had not run out.

It was within moments of taking that breakneck speed that he began to hear the dissonance of a man yelling intermittent with cackling laughter a short distance away. As he drew nearer, the tone, pitch, and cadence of this voice grew clearer and more recognizable, the ring of it familiar to a sound he often heard in nightmares. Tristan slowed his steed and jumped off, signaling for the horse to be still. He continued on foot, softly and with calculation, drawing an arrow from his quiver and pulling it firmly into the bowstring. From behind a large tree to the southeast, he could more clearly make out the ravings, and the identity of the man producing them. Lucius was slightly out of breath and clearly at a peak of excitement as he crowed triumphantly. **  
**  
"You could have given up the sword and died quietly! Has your despair consumed you? Or, perhaps, you have begun enjoying yourself and have realized your folly in refusing to become my woman?"

Tristan crouched, his nerves humming at the close distance. His heartbeat, once racing, now slowed as he prepared to sneak a visual of the scene at hand, bow at the ready. He knew already what he would face. The sound of Lucius's panting efforts and the pulsing, crunch of leaf and twig gave way to the realization. Though his stomach churned sickeningly, his mind felt calm for the first time all day. He was close enough that he would not miss his mark.

As he twisted around the tree trunk to make his aim, his eyes took in the girl-king's body where she lay sprawled on the ground below Lucius's monstrous form. There was blood all over her, handprints up her torso and sloppy splatters across her legs. She was still except for the Scottish commander quaking her aggressively with thrusts of her pelvis. Her eyes were wide and unblinking as she stared at the sky beyond her attacker. Tristan's heart thumped in his chest, rage brimming over the barrier of his cool demeanor. Her body looked fragile, a shadow of the brave, though stubborn, woman to which he had become accustomed. To his surprise, as he studied her face, he recognized a subtle spark in her lack of expression.

Though unable to pause and consider the thought, he recognized the dignity of the look, one of facing adversity with uncompromising resolve.

Using firm footwork, he rounded the corner of the tree, took aim, and let fly his arrow. It struck and embedded deeply into Lucius's upper side.

The commander cried out, then jumped to his feet, sword in one hand. Tristan's second arrow was blocked with a thrust of Lucius's sword as he yanked his pants up to his waist. "Tristan," he hissed, "it will take more than one arrow to slow me. You shouldn't have given pause."

The knight stood tall, third arrow drawn. "I promise, you will not be able to block them all."

Lucius's expression twisted from anger into one of bemusement. "But Tristan, what is there for you to fight for? She is already dead." He prodded Ellessah's body with the tip of his sword and, sure enough, she didn't move. "For example-" As he trailed off, he sank the tip of his sword into the woman's shoulder. "See? Not even a whimper."

Tristan could feel his grip on his bow falter as the blade was removed and blood began dripping over the girl-king's expressionless face. Her eyes were closed now, lips parted in an appearance of breathlessness.

"You may as well pretend you never found her and spare yourself the shame of your band of brothers finding out you were not strong enough to save her from me. I won't kill you when you turn your back, I swear. Better to let you live with this failure."

"No." Tristan demanded Lucius's silence by strengthening the grip and aim of his bow.

With a chuckle, Lucius stepped aside. "Suit yourself." He snapped his fingers and, as if spirited away, he flipped up into the saddle of a horse as it galloped into the glen. As he vanished into the rows of trees, a burst of smoke filled the area disorienting Tristan and leaving him coughing uncomfortably in its wake. He searched the air for a sign of Lucius only long enough to be sure he was truly gone as the blinding haze dissipated.

With a ceding grunt of dissatisfaction, the arrow was shoved back into its quiver and the bow shouldered in a swift motion. Tristan hurried to Ellessah's side, his face grim. Besides the fresh shoulder wound with its blood dribbled onto the side of her limp head, there was fresh and dried blood all over her leg and hip from a gash on her thigh. There were finger-shaped, purple bruises along her shoulders, upper arms, and lighter bruising around her neck, and face. There was also blood around her lower pelvis and abdomen, though he could not be sure if it had come from her leg or someplace else. Her face was pale beneath the obvious signs of trauma. He crouched down beside her, one hand gently palpating and tracing her various wounds and bruises.

To his relief, he caught sight of her chest shudder up, then down—a sign of life.

His own breath hitching at the sight of her labored inhale, he tucked a matted and sweaty clump of hair behind her ear. He ground his jaw at her lack of response.

As his hand drifted away from her face, he consciously began to acknowledge the state of her dress. Without deliberation, he sprang up and whistled for his horse. The saddlebag produced his medical kit and the bundle of bandages. He went to work slowing the bleeding of the two open wounds, covering them in salve and binding them firmly. He poured water from his canteen onto a handful of bandages and began to dab away much of the blood from her face, arms, and legs. A quick check of her forehead told him everything he needed to know. Fever had set in.

Any attempt to force-feed her medicine from his kit failed. Instead, it produced a gagging, suffocating choke with each attempt. Frustrated, he placed a cool, wet cloth on her forehead and set to work binding her chest and pelvis. Once her wounds were covered and some privacy returned to her, he stood and removed his outer tunic. By threading her arms into its sleeves and tying a strip of cloth at the waist to hold the remnants of her dress and the tunic together, he felt marginally better that she looked like a beggar instead of a dead body. As he repacked his bag, he left her lying on the ground, his ears carefully pricked for any changes in the rhythm of her shallow breathing. He tightened the strap of his saddle and let heave a sigh he had been building since the early afternoon.

"I told you to stay home."

One last tug on the saddle strap, anger infused, and he patted a half-hearted apology to his horse. "I know not whether to go to camp or camelot, friend."

The sound of a fast approaching horse made Tristan wheel around to the north, sword brandished.

"It is Galahad." The slight boy and his grey horse trotted into view, his expression pensive. "You found her?"

Tristan relaxed his posture. "Yes, some time ago. I have already treated her wounds." He sheathed his blade grumpily. "When did you follow me? You and your horse are much faster than we are, yet you arrive only now?" Tristan, hearing his failure at keeping the scolding tone out of his own voice, cleared his throat to break his own tension.

Galahad's eyebrows rose gently, but he masked his surprise at the harshness by returning a neutral expression to his soft, boyish features. "I dispatched the three henchmen in the time that, I assume, you were dealing with Lucius. They might have hindered our return to camp with the King and I assumed you would have this under control." A slight narrowing of his eyes betrayed his concern for Ellessah. "Everything is under control, yes?"

With a nod, Tristan reassured Galahad before turning back to the unconscious girl-king. "We cannot take her back to camp."

"Hm?" Galahad dismounted and with smooth, quiet strides, moved to the other knight's side. His dismay was evident in the soft, "Oh," he uttered under his breath. "You believe she might die?"

"She has a fever and I have reason to suspect she was poisoned. I do not think she will last two days without Merlin. If she wakes up soon we will have better chances, but she is beyond the medics at camp now."

With an unusual degree of surprise for the quiet Galahad, he looked from knight to girl and back. "It is a day and half ride at a decent gallop," he said, his voice rising anxiously, "if she can withstand the pace, does not bleed out or have injuries we cannot see. That does not leave much room for success."

"I have my doubts about the pace as well." Tristan's eyes were dark beneath his shaggy bangs.

Galahad's face became sullen. "There is one other misfortune to consider."

"Oh?" Tristan eyed his companion, his arms firmly crossing his chest.

"The Holy Sword is missing," Galahad offered. "Cavall returned to camp. Lady Ellessah's belt and sheath were around his neck, but that is all. I found a place along her path where I thought she may have been attempting to hide the sword, but I found nothing there."

At this first realization that the sword was missing from her, Tristan took a hold of his bearded chin thoughtfully. "Is that why he did not kill her? Galahad, I think I found that place as well and saw nothing. But if he had the sword, would he not simply kill her and move on? When I found them-" He felt the words catch in his throat as he remembered what he had witnessed. "I heard him say she should have given up the sword to him at some earlier time, but it is unclear to me whether he had the sword or not. If she were successful in hiding it, he would desire to keep her alive and try again to obtain it later when she had recovered it from secrecy. He may have spared her because he would otherwise have no clear path to controlling Britain."

With an agreeing and thoughtful nod, Galahad stooped to palpate Ellessah's damp forehead. "The sword is mysterious and powerful. Her strong will may have successfully hidden it, more so than her efforts."

"The sword does have a mind of its own, regardless of its ownership." Tristan eyed Galahad and noted the boy's refusal to acknowledge his statement. He offered resignedly, "Taking her back there will be the only way to recover it, in that case. Help me with her."

Galahad carefully lifted Ellessah's body up, offering her to Tristan once he had mounted his horse and was able to cradle her against his chest.

"You are the faster rider, Galahad. I will take her in hopes of finding the sword then head to Camelot. We will have to make camp halfway for her to rest. You will have ample time to ride and fetch Merlin and meet us on the road. Take the northern highway the merchants from Sherwood use on your return. We will be there."

The young knight's eyes narrowed at the instructions but he bowed gently to Tristan and backed away into a sprint to his horse. Leather creaked as he mounted and reared the horse around in the direction of Camelot. Without a parting acknowledgement, the knight galloped into the trees and the sound of the horse's footfall soon dissipated.

Tristan felt the soft brush of an exhale on his arm and gazed down at his charge who lay tucked into the crook of his elbow and wedged against the saddle horn. He thought she looked better, more peaceful, than she had lying on the forest floor after he had tended to her wounds. With the journey ahead, he doubted he would see her so serene for some time.

Tristan did the best he could to guide them at a gentle trot and they soon returned to the circle of trees and blood stained rocks, where the dirt lay scrambled about. Carefully, Tristan lifted Ellessah and slipped down from the saddle. He nestled her into a thicket and set about examining the area once more. After carefully tracing and retracing the now fading tracks of her earlier movements he realized his earliest presumption had been correct. If the sword was here, he was very surprised no one had discovered it, with her obvious disturbance of the terrain.

He went back to examining the tree in question. After a little while of circling and touching its crevices he decided one thing was certain. The tree looked different than it had the first time he had come here. Had it not been only one trunk? It now appeared as two trunks fused together. He stared intently at the fissure. It was dark there and the foliage above was particularly dense, but there was a clear seam, filled to the brim with dirt. Tristan snatched a thick twig from the ground and began to prod at the crevice. Clods tumbled down like a small landslide. His eyebrows lifted and he felt a smile dance across his face. The sword was clearly only willing to be found in the King's presence. Even in the dim light, the dirt and twigs stuffed in the fissure barely looked like part of the tree. He continued scraping until his efforts were rewarded with a steel gleam. After clearing much of the debris, he found his large hands and fingers struggling to get far enough inside to get a firm grip on the hilt of the sword. Nearly half an hour passed before he was able to wriggle it free enough to grasp it with both hands and yank it out the rest of the way.

She had somehow gotten far enough ahead of Lucius, and had been expedient enough, to shove the sword this deeply and firmly into a conveniently dark crevice and to mask it with more than a few handfuls of dirt. "A funny and a lucky girl, aren't you, Your Majesty?" Tristan mused aloud with a casual glance in Ellessah's general direction. He paused with his hand halfway inside of his saddlebag, his mind rejecting the thoughtlessness. She was no benefactor of luck. Using every small skill she possessed, she had outsmarted her enemy long enough to survive. He had been lucky to arrive in time to find anything of her left after overlooking the vulnerabilities of leaving her at camp. With a gloomy, slow exhale, he pulled out some of the bandages and carefully wrapped the blade of the Holy Sword until it was completely covered. Then, he tucked the sword under a flap of the saddlebag and tied it securely. He returned to Ellessah and scooped her back up into his arms, his gaze darkening as he watched her parted lips tremble in her unconscious state. "The round table is better off without me."

Tristan's thoughts darkened further as he remounted the two of them and adjusted her to lie securely against his chest. She should never have been without an escort, whether at camp or home. Even if she had stayed at the castle, assassins could have made quick work of her in their absence, made plain by the appearance of the deadly snake in her bedchambers months ago. The only ones who could be entrusted to keep her alive were the Knights of the Round Table.

He had selfishly insisted that she was a burden they could do without.

Now, two knights had spent most of a day traipsing all over the woods of northern Britain to rescue their King instead of all three of them being on the battlefield to aid in victory or to, at the very least, die or be maimed in a noble fashion. He had not prevented any horrible fate from finding her. She had been forced to risk her life and spirit to protect the future of Britain—and had succeeded.

Tristan thought bitterly of the blade they had recovered. It was a worthless thing. It had brought an innocent woman into danger and despair, when the life she might have otherwise lived would have been simple and peaceful. It had chosen her as its sacrifice.

"You should have tossed away this sword first thing and spared yourself. The other knights have a spell cast over them. I don't know how you've managed it, but they would serve you willingly, Holy Sword or not." He faintly squeezed her shoulders to him, his jaw setting firmly against his upper teeth.

Ellessah made no response except to continue her shallow breathing. Tristan's expression as he looked at her softened gradually. "We will ride until next nightfall, Your Highness. I do not know how or if the battle has ended, or if your knights live or have perished, but your only hope is our expedient journey home. Pray Merlin meets us on the road."

* * *

I pray you leave me some reviews and concrit, FF travelers. Thanks for reading. Until next time.


	5. Chapter 5

I love Gawain as a personality, but his story is my least favorite. His backstory is really trite and makes him more shallow instead of more developed.

My fav review of this game is on a blog called ira ira suru. Nerrin, the author, says it best: "Gawain wants to be the very best like no one ever was, and Alu's by his side like the Pikachu to his Ash. Because his route is so irrelevant to the plot, it's just Gawain beating up gym leaders—er, random people along the way." *laughs* *sighs*

I somehow still enjoy writing the guy.

What do you think of Gawain?

* * *

It had been a few hours since Tristan and Galahad's departure from the battle with Scotland. The remaining knights had found themselves and the army overwhelmed and at a number disadvantage. The situation was not yet bleak, but as they struggled to aid the ranks of men, they found themselves more and more spread out, unable to communicate. Lancelot had managed to stick close to Gawain, if for no other reason than to strategically guide the axe-wielder's power to where it was needed most. Between thinking for the both of them, he was overwhelmed with worry for their situation and for the King's. Lancelot looked around at the soldiers nearest to him, deeply concerned for what he saw written on their faces. Exhaustion was setting in deep to the bone. He himself could barely focus.

His thoughts strayed back to Tristan's sudden departure and the strange and foreboding expression that had darkened his face with Galahad's news. Were their suspicions correct, Tristan was facing a dire battle of his own. A nagging thought prevailed. Tristan had been so quick to appoint himself the King's rescue party. In recent weeks, conversation in the knights' tower had grown darker regarding Tristan's loyalties. He had been appearing to grow close to Morgause, who they suspected had a sinister plot of some kind, and he did not look kindly on the new King, leaving Lancelot to ponder why he had been so concerned regarding her safety. In this respect, he was glad to have sent Galahad to help, but had he been able to fully trust Tristan, such an expenditure of power, when they needed swords here, might have been unnecessary.

Lancelot found himself fumbling a parry against a particularly large opponent and grimaced. He barely avoided his arm being sliced, as he twisted his body to one side, but he knew right away that he was unprepared as the man swung into his next attack. A battle-axe swung down on the enemy's shoulder, ending the fight.

"We need you here and now, Lancelot!"

Despite his chiding tone, Gawain flashed Lancelot a bright smile and with a snap of his wrist, released his axe from the downed opponent. Lancelot returned a weak smile to the fiery haired knight.

"You are not wrong, Gawain. Cover me while I survey the battle field."

It was a routine they had repeated many times since the battle began. Lancelot would look around, sometimes with a small spyglass, and determine if there was need for their leadership in some other area.

"The westernmost rank is looking scattered," Lancelot said after a swift check.

"Off we go!"

Lancelot chuckled inwardly as Gawain began emphatically slicing his way through opponents as they trudged their way to the western flank. It seemed, watching the way his broad shoulders flexed as he wielded his axe, that Gawain never tired or lost strength. As he parried and struck opponents of his own, Lancelot wondered what having energy at this point in a battle would be like.

Halfway to their destination, they found Bors. There was worry set into the lines of his face as they approached.

"Comrades!" The knife wielder met their approach with a wave of one of his blades. "There is trouble on the forward line. Perceval has gone to challenge Lucius's top commander, Bruno. From what I have gathered, they are locked in combat as we speak." ****

Gawain grinned ecstatically. "If Perceval wins, we could have the power to finish this thing."

Bors huffed but a smile broke out awkwardly amidst it. "I hope you are right, Gawain. My worry is about if he loses. We will need a leader to bolster the strength and courage of the forward ranks." He looked at Lancelot. "And to take up the challenge."

Lancelot wiped sweat from his brow with the back of his hand and glanced north. "Of course. Gawain, you should continue west and get them reorganized and ready for my signal upon Perceval's victory."

"On my way!"

"Bors," continued Lancelot firmly.

Bors lowered his eyes briefly, his voice softening as much as it could to still be heard over the ruckus. "Thank you. I did not mean to volunteer you, but I believe you are best suited." Bors clapped a hand over Lancelot's shoulder and gave him an apologetic look. "Perceval will not fail."

Lancelot felt his calm exterior crack at Bors's apology. He grimaced a smile at the knight's proclamation of confidence. "He will not. Thank you." With that he went north.

The trek was as arduous as he had anticipated. The farther he went, the denser the field became with enemy soldiers. He took to running and dodging, finding that most sought out a different opponent when he became too inconvenient to challenge. As he came to the hillside where Perceval's encounter was taking place, he found that the soldiers were disenchanted with battling, instead gathering in a great circle to watch the fight. It was drawing quite the crowd. He swiftly moved to circle the space until he was on the side where he could catch Perceval's eye. Soon as he had, they shared a reassuring nod.

Perceval was covered in scratches and gashes that left bloody smears across his skin. Usually, the young man seemed young and looked boyish. The wounds aged him and his face had taken on a ferocity that scattered his usual, unassuming cheerfulness. He looked like a wild man, his spear covered in as much blood as he was. To Lancelot's relief, the opposing commander looked worse off, though calmer.

Jab, swipe, jab; the number and speed of successive attacks varied. At times they circled, Perceval offering fake-out jabs while Bruno held his ground, eyes narrowed and teeth bared. Other times, they clashed without pause for long minutes, each occasionally landing a glancing blow on the other. Perceval was faster, Bruno stronger.

After a long back and forth of blows, Perceval began looking particularly weary. The gathered soldiers noticed this and the Scotsmen began jeering and banging their swords against their armor. The men of England returned with shouts of encouragement for their knight. Lancelot could tell that Perceval was becoming distracted and pallid. He pushed his way into the circle with a shout and raised his sword over his head.

"Perceval! Knight of the Round Table!"

The spear-wielder locked eyes with his leader for a careful instant.

"I forbid you to fail her majesty, the King of England! She would have you for her personal foot rest if you do!"

A spark of laughter lit in Perceval's eyes, which returned color to face and strength to his limbs. "You heard him. What the boss-knight and my lady-king says, goes."

Bruno made a scoffing noise. "Shut up and die!"

A fierce rally of blows silenced the rowdy crowd. The tone of the battle had changed. Perceval seemed to be leading, drawing the Scottish commander in a tight, fast circle in one direction, only to leap suddenly and reverse the direction of the circle and his attacks. With Bruno on the defense, the boy's confidence grew in strides. Guttural cries were erupting from him with every thrust.

The spear's striking pattern changed again and, as it reversed directions, the motion of Bruno's sword revealed that he had been anticipating a different choice. The spear sank deeply and with a moist suckling sound into Bruno's lowermost ribs. With a jerk, Perceval forced it through to the other side. With another jerk, he retrieved the weapon as the body fell.

"For King and country," he crowed with a victorious grin.

Ecstatic, Lancelot again lifted his sword above his head and ran out into the circle. "Scotland's second in command is dead! Charge! Seize victory for England!" His cry rallied, the closest soldiers transitioning from observers back to participants before he could finish the orders. The Scotsman, some still busy checking the vitality of their now dead commander, were hesitant in their returns, the parries of their swords weak as they looked around for an inspiring command of their own. It took mere minutes for the crowd to be reduced down to English loyalties, those men quick to move outward from the circle, seeking new victories. The English motivation spread across the field to the farthest reaches in a slow, but visible wave. Largely unified, England's army began to thrust their attack north, forcing the Scotsmen into a defensive position.

As Lancelot felt the power surge in the men around him, victory seemed within reach. Every thrust of his sword felt twice as effective as it had before Perceval's victory. Before the front lines could press half way up the incline of Scotland's original vantage, an abrupt horn blast—a call to retreat—came from beyond the crest of the northern hills. As the Scotsmen began to flee the field of battle, Lancelot thought better of hastily following them into a trap and called on the soldiers to stand down.

It took some time, once their army had gathered and reorganized to search for survivors, for scouts to go out and return with news of Scotland's movements. They were continuing their flight north, their camp and supplies abandoned.

"We should return to our camp with haste," Lancelot said firmly after the scouts had finished delivering the news and departed. He motioned the knights to gather in a tight circle, lowering his voice. "I am loath to wait the day for the men to finish sifting the battlefield. Will three of you volunteer to lead them while one returns in haste with me to find out what has happened to the King and to see if our help is needed there?"

"I am not at my best after the fight with Bruno. I feel I will serve the most good by remaining with our men," Perceval offered.

"Thank you, Perceval. You fought valiantly and have done well!" Lancelot said with a clap on the boy's shoulder to reassure him.

"Agreed," said Bors in earnest.

"I think you have never fought better than you did back there. Your skill has truly grown." Mordred said with a nod of respect.

"Well, I think you did us quite the honor with that win," cried Gawain, thumping his chest with his fist. "Scared the Scotsmen right out of Britain!"

Perceval grinned from ear to ear as each knight spoke up to offer their congratulations. "Thanks, everyone! Don't hold back your praise."

Lancelot grimaced in his impatience. "Who else will stay with him?"

"I will," said Bors.

"Good. Gawain? Mordred?"

"I want to go with you!" Gawain hoisted his battle-axe over his shoulder. "If the King is in danger, I would lay down my life."

Lancelot shot him a skeptical eye. "It has not come to that yet."

"You are not the faster rider," Bors interrupted quickly. "Mordred should go with Lancelot."

"I would agree with, Bors," said Lancelot with an apologetic nod to Gawain, "but I would not want make any of you feel obliged to a task."

All eyes turned to Mordred. Gawain huffed bitterly.

Mordred let out a playful smile. "I would also lay down my life for the King."

"It's settled then. Mordred is with me. I look forward to seeing you three shortly, with good news to report on all fronts."

"Safe journey!" Shouted Bors as Lancelot and Mordred hurried away to seek horses.

Gawain glared at the backs of his disappearing comrades. "I can ride fast," he mumbled bitterly.

"You are better at controlling the troops." Bors smiled cheerfully. "Mordred has not the rapport with them that you have."

Gawain looked flustered, then pleased and sheepish. Perceval laughed aloud and Gawain returned to glaring.

"You got something to say about it?"

Perceval let out one last choked snicker, failed in his attempts to mask his smile and said, "Not a thing."

"You're both jerks!"

"You fought valiantly also!" Bors let escape a chuckle that tried to sound cheerful, but remained half choked in his guilt.

"Of course I did! Stop changing the subject!" Gawain's nostrils flared angrily as he pointed his axe in Bors's direction.

A soft, carefully masked titter could be heard faintly from men moving supplies past the knights. Bors and Perceval glanced around gingerly as their fiery haired comrade fell silent, his face darkening to match his hair's shade of red.

Gawain holstered his axe with an angry thrust turned and headed towards the funeral pyre that was being gathered without another word.

There was humorous but awkward silence between the knights for the next hour as the army and the knights worked to reclaim the bodies of their dead.


	6. Chapter 6

I wish I had more free time throughout the year. I get two months where I have any semblance of free time and I spent the first two weeks of this year's break on a certification I need for next year. I thought this year I'd surely do better with my time throughout, but writing always gets pushed to the bottom of a very long list. I studied more, exercised more (not enough), worked more, kept my house cleaner and got a cat. In June I was in a motorcycle accident and between physical therapy and making calls to get my insurance to pay out, there went the rest of my time.

I'm not giving up on this story though. I hope you enjoy the multi-chapter update.

* * *

By time the morning sun had begun to vanish behind fitful, foggy clouds, there had still been no sign of man or beast, even before leaving the woods for the trade route. Tristan and Ellessah were now traveling across rolling meadows and by the afternoon there would be a wide lake. There were no places to hide in this open expanse of field and meadow and the view on all sides was far-reaching. It would be as difficult to ambush them, as it would be to hide. Speed, in any case, remained Tristan's objective.

The air was still, no screech of raven or crow, as humidity gathered around them. Tristan's spirits sank at the sensation of it. The foreboding notion of being caught alone in a rainstorm, with the King in such a state, unnerved him. If they were really unfortunate, the rain would hold off until the evening, when they would be holding out hope to see the first glimpses of Galahad and Merlin.

Ellessah had remained quiet and still, her steady and gentle breaths nearly the only sign of her remaining life. If squeezed closely enough to him, Tristan could feel a faint pulse through her back. He was avidly attempting to focus on the road and surrounding terrain rather than think about her, but for some reason, his eyes wanted to constantly study her and his hand tingled where it was pressing her stomach to keep her securely against him. She was hardly any trouble at her weight and stature, a fact that only made her more of a novelty to his roaming thoughts.

He was beginning to think it might be time to check her wounds for irritation and bleeding. It was good to be sure the bandages were tight enough, but he was hesitant to break their pace, his urge to get her to safety gnawing at him. They could be followed, or hunted. No doubt Lucius would have had a back up plan ready, or would have, by now, created one knowing how vulnerable they would be on the road.

Amidst his considerations, Ellessah began to slip against the saddle horn, straining his hold. Without releasing his right-handed grip on the reigns, he tucked a hand under her thigh and scooted her back into place. She really was quite light he mused.

When Ellessah's eyes opened groggily, Tristan was too engrossed in his thoughts to take notice, but a sudden huff of breath, which jerked her body, did not evade his detection. As her chest began rising and falling at a quickened pace, he looked down, unable to see her face. In the next moment, her wide, yet still hazy eyes were boring into his face, confusion apparent.

"How do you feel, Your Majesty?"

"What?"

Her blunt, hoarse response caught Tristan off guard. He raised his eyebrows slightly, though attempting to control the expression.

"How do you feel?"

"Awful," she rasped, still looking very confused. She took a deep, shaky breath, tears beginning to gather in the rims of her eyes. "Who are you? Why am I not in my father's house?"

"Ah-" Tristan's own voice cracked now, words forming and dying prematurely in his throat. "You don't remember what happened?"

She stared at him in earnest. Before he could speak again, she began attempting to sit up. When her left arm pressed against the saddle horn, she cried out in agony and shock. As if she began to think better of being close to him, she began to wriggle weakly, her right arm pressing space between them.

"Be still-" Tristan fought to keep her in the saddle. "Your Majesty—Lady Ellessah—please; you will open your wounds. You have been poisoned-"

"Let go." Her voice quivered with anger and fear, but Tristan was relieved to see her tire quickly of fighting him physically. She began to pant, tears dripping down her cheeks, as her eyes darted, searching her surroundings uneasily. "Where am I?"

An ache in his chest caused his arm to flinch, tightening its grip on her waist. Frustrated, his words came out harsh instead of comforting. "If you would quit attempting to worsen your own situation—I could explain!" He saw the dismay that crossed her expression, and the anxious biting of her own lower lip that prevented reply, so, with a sigh and an attempt to relax his tone, he continued. "Do you remember me at all?"

Ellessah shook her head as if afraid to upset him again. "The last thing I remember; I was cooking dinner for my father."

"What day and what year?"

The question stopped the girl-king open mouthed. She knitted her brow then groaned, her hand reaching for her injured thigh. She seemed startled at that revelation as well, her panting hastening. "I-I'm not sure. I suddenly feel as if it has been a long time since then." Her head, which she had been keeping fervently upright since awakening, drooped backwards against his upper arm. "Everything hurts. I cannot think."

"Alright. I won't ask you any more questions. Try to relax. You were attacked and poisoned. I am trying to get you back to Camelot, to get treatment."

Rather, to Merlin, he thought to himself. She seemed to have no recollection of taking the throne, of the knights, or him, let alone the battle and being attacked by Lucius.

"I must ask you to trust me," Tristan asserted gently. "Based on what you remember, there is too much to tell and we may yet be in danger. Help is coming from Camelot to meet us and we should be a day's journey at our current pace. You must rest or your condition will worsen." He looked at her earnestly. "Can you trust me?"

"You said," she mumbled, "there would be no more questions."

Tristan felt his mind go blank, and then he burst out a raucous laugh. "So you are still in there. Good. Knowing that, I feel more confident."

Ellessah's right hand swept upward. Her finger extended to touch Tristan's beard, but she barely grazed it before her hand dropped back. Her voice was weak as she offered her next thought. "I do trust you, for some reason."

In the next breath, she trembled and gasped, her hands clinging to her stomach. Tristan sat her upright just in time for her to vomit over the side onto the road. He grimaced as she moaned and spit.

"Come. Let us get you down from here and allow you to rest in the grass for a few minutes. We cannot be long but perhaps some water and medicine that I have will help you with your sickness."

In no time, he had nestled her into a grassy knoll with a pack under her head. He bid her to rest while he set about retrieving the medicine he had tried earlier to force feed her and the canteen of water. As he knelt next to her, she struggled to open her eyes and look at what he had in his hands.

She was clearly still anxious. Tristan's pent up feelings of frustration left him. No matter how difficult this situation was making things for him, she surely had it worse. "It's medicine, Your Highness."

Ellessah closed her eyes and opened her mouth. As he made a first attempt to lift the cup to her lips, he realized her labored breathing was making it difficult not to spill the liquid. He wordlessly slipped himself under her head, pushing the pack out of the way with the back of the hand holding the cup. With her head resting firmly in the crease of his lap, he tried again to gently tilt the cup against her mouth. She struggled against its bitter taste, but did better with the water that followed. They stayed like that for nearly a quarter of an hour, passing intermittent sips of water. He had determined to hydrate her as long as she would accept it, since she had surely had nothing since the evening before.

At least she was awake and moving, Tristan thought as he stewed in an internal gloom. Illness, pain, and despair were all reactions he had imagined and bolstered himself against. Memory loss, however, had come like an arrow in the dark. He supposed it was entirely possible that the poison had been magically adapted to include such an affect. Yet, he could not comprehend a plot where memory loss in the king was central. It seemed too kindly for Lucius to let her forget the torture if it did not serve a specific purpose.

Whatever the reason, it would be a stumbling block in regards to her maintaining the faith of the Lords.

But that could be the whole point.

Tristan breathed deeply to regain his nerves and moved again to offer Ellessah a drink. They locked eyes, surprising him. "Are you alright, Your Majesty?"

Ellessah shifted her head in order to square her gaze at him. "Why do you call me that?" Her voice was stronger than before.

With a grimace, he set down the water cup beside them. "That is your title. You pulled the Holy Sword from the stone and now you are King."

"Why do you lie to me?"

"I do not."

"You are teasing me then."

"I am not."

She was silent and pensive, chewing her lip in a way he had often seen her doing while addressing him in days past. "A woman as King? Ridiculous!"

Tristan leaned back on his hands and let out a long sigh. "That is what I said," he mumbled. He bent his head forward and gave her a dry look. "It is the truth. I cannot tease you regarding this matter."

"Where is my sword then?"

"It is with the horse. Shall I get it?"

The girl-king shook her head and looked away. "Keep it. I cannot be King."

The knight felt his heart beginning to pound as his frustration with the topic bubbled up. Bitterly, he exclaimed, "Yet here we both are." He gently replaced his lap with the sack and stood. After quickly brushing off his pants, he crossed his arms and cocked his head as he looked down on her. "You are King and I am a knight of the round table. I do not know why the sword picked you, but I watched you pull it myself. And that is why you are here, as a matter of fact." Tristan walked to the horse and began adjusting the straps of the packs and saddle.

"You think I should not be King," Ellessah said firmly. "Yet you said I should trust you."

"That need not break our trust. I am no fan of your rule, but I respect that it is fact and will duly do all I can to see you safely back to the castle. Even so, you are not King to me personally. Don't expect much bowing and scraping beyond what I have offered thus far."

"Why not leave me here then? You could have your wish."

"I'm not so impulsive."

As Tristan turned and headed back to collect the girl-king from her resting place, she crossed her uninjured arm huffily and turned her face away from him. He squatted and began to dig his hands under her back and legs but stopped when she stiffened. "Do you plan to fight me?"

"No," she said coldly, though her breathing eased after she said it. "I feel like you betray me with your words. I don't understand the feeling. I want to be alone."

Tristan's expression softened. "I understand, but that is a luxury we cannot afford. You will have ample time away from me once we are safely back. I promise I will not address you again if you do not wish it."

Ellessah was silent as the knight lifted her and remounted them both onto the horse. Her expression was pensive, though no longer hostile. There was a deep, uncertain sadness under the surface. As the horse sprang back into a trot, Tristan did his best to hold her loosely, hoping that would ease some of the ill will his harshness had fashioned between them. He was almost impressed with how quickly he could insult her and crush her spirit. He might even be increasing the speed and harshness of his cruelty, he mocked inwardly. Lucius might have simply set him to her in order to achieve his ends, though he quickly dismissed that bitter idea as overdramatic. Surely, what he had said was not as bad as what that man had done.

Then came a worse realization. Someone would probably need to tell the Lady Ellessah she had been violated. She might eventually realize it based on her state of dress, but she had not yet asked about it. He was certainly unprepared to bring it up. He did not think Galahad knew about it specifically, as she was already bandaged and covered by time he had arrived, but if he did, Tristan hoped the boy would warn Merlin. The wizard would know how to break it to her. Ellessah adjusting her head against him brought him back from his thoughts.

"Is it all right to sleep? Do you need me to keep watch for bandits with you?"

Bandits, she called them. She truly did not understand the danger she was in.

"No. I can manage. You should sleep. You are looking better, but who knows what the poison will do with time."

Within seconds, the girl-king dozed off, exhaustion set into her unconscious expression.


	7. Chapter 7

Though she awoke from time to time, Tristan and Ellessah said nothing to each other for the next few hours. As they were reaching the point where he was expecting to find the edge of the lake, he noticed that she was visibly struggling to be alert. Her eyes were dark and their focus torpid. He checked her pulse by gently pressing his hand to her left ribs. It was slow, but present. Her head drooped.

"Your Majesty, how do you feel?" He shook her gently.

Ellessah drew in a thick, weak breath, her eyes closed. He had to bend down to make out her words. "I feel cold."

It was hardly cold, Tristan thought worriedly. "Hold on," he urged, "hold on until we get to the lake's edge. We can rest there and water the horse and lay in the grass like before." Instinctively, he pressed her to him as he sat up in the stirrups, trying to get a glimpse of the water as they crested a hill. He thought they would have arrived some time ago, by his estimations. He doubted he was so far off as to be still unable to see signs of water from the tops of the hills. All the while, the sky had been growing more shrouded with clouds, the air thick as if they were standing in a room full of hot baths.

Without meaning to urge the horse, they hurried along until they were at a weak gallop. Tristan found himself clutching Ellessah's body as she went limp and unconscious against him. He could hear his own voice as he recited the words, "Hold on. Just a little further." Over and over he said them, feeling dizzy as senses of dread and anxiety washed over him with the horse's every stride. He felt as if they were going nowhere, the minutes passing and the rolling hills feeling as if they were churning below them like an ocean. They were floating instead of galloping. After a long time had passed, the horse was foaming wildly and trembling beneath their weight. He was losing his grip on Ellessah, his legs aching as he struggled to lift her body to keep her in the saddle. The lake was nowhere to be found.

The road they were traveling was a simple, gently curving highway that only the traders coming from the west used to get to Camelot. Because of its lack of connection to nearby villages, it was meant to be a road carts and men on horseback would rush down without restraint, not a sightseeing road for personal travelers. They could not possibly have taken a wrong turn or gotten lost.

The horse and riders lumbered on, more frantic than ever. Beyond the obvious absence of the lake, something in the air felt off—beyond humid—it felt oppressive and foggy, though Tristan's sight wasn't actually obstructed. Even more oddly, it looked as if the sun had remained at high noon for the past few hours – though the growing cloud cover left plenty of room for doubt. He reckoned, despite his growing certainty that an entire lake was missing, that he was beyond calm, rational reasoning and finally admitted defeat. With a whistle, the horse slowed and came to a halt. Within seconds the panic left him. He couldn't remember what had come over him; only that hurrying had been their only option.

It was unlikely the miles of bouncing and jostling had done the King's body any good. Tristan dismounted and placed her in the grass, laying in his own exhaustion next to her while he checked her pulse and respiration. To his immense relief, both were weak, yet steady. He cupped a hand around her chin and studied the color in her cheeks. She had visually declined, her pallid face dripping with a feverish sweat. He realized with some relief that she was dreaming and not entirely unconscious, her expression shifting from pain to fear and back again. He pulled a cloth from his pocket and dabbed her forehead. It was past time to check her bandages.

"Forgive my intrusion," he said as he untied the belt of cloth from around the coat he had lent her. He gently lifted it away, supporting each arm as they slipped from the sleeves. What he saw beneath disturbed him.

The wounds had recently bled through the bandages. The gallop had been the culprit, he regretted to himself. The worst changes, however, were dark streaks that had begun to creep from the wounds towards her head. It was like no infection he had ever seen, to the extent that he could not be certain that it even was an infection. He looked around quickly, as if hoping to see Merlin riding up with his typical indulgent smile.

His limited medical skills were the best they had now. Tristan set to work cleaning the wounds. They leaked blood easily and he cursed himself again. What a strange thing to have come over him. He was good at making controlled decisions. It was unlike him to rush about or to be careless. The nagging feeling of oppressive air hit him strongly. He choked, coughing in an attempt to clear away the feeling.

As he cleaned her, he made attempts to see if any pus or seepage could be milked from the wounds. The blood was clean and bright. It seemed the right thing to do to drain the infection, but with the wounds as fresh and deep as they were, it seemed like it should be unnecessary to open them further. He sat for a minute in uncertainty before whipping a knife from a leg holster and setting it decidedly to her shoulder. He prodded the black, vein-looking tracks for a moment and came to disturbing knowledge. The black marks were only skin deep. There was no infection. He hissed in frustration as he applied fresh salve to the new cut and pressed a cloth over to slow the bleeding.

"I'll be damned if you aren't enchanted, Your Highness. That's for sure."

He finished rebinding her wounds by placing clean squares of bandage next to the skin and wrapping over them with the old ones. Hopefully Merlin and Galahad would bring ample fresh cloth. He double checked his work and found himself momentarily distracted by the sight of her bandage-wrapped, nearly naked form.

It surprised him to register attraction at the sight of her, a feeling he quickly pushed away. Even stronger, what came next was the undeniable urge to protect her. He felt a profound sense of concern that she was presently in danger. It was as if an enemy was charging. The feeling was shocking. Tristan stood and grasped his head in both hands. The sensation was unreal, as if he wasn't touching his head at all. He felt a deepening sense of being adrift.

A sound like a battle cry shattered his concentration. He gasped, his heart and head pounding. There was nothing around them, nothing to make that sound. A throbbing fear gripped him. Abruptly, as if shoved from behind, he was stumbling forward and crudely redressing her in the coat before scooping her up. He could hear himself yelling to take Ellessah's body and his horse and to flee into the woods.

"What woods?" Tristan shouted back to himself.

He was yelling again, telling himself to go across the road and not to stop until they had reached the river. He flung the girl-king over his shoulder and his steps echoed in his ears as he covered the wide dirt road in a few strides. Though unable to remember when it had happened, the reigns of his horse were in his hand as they crossed into the grass.

Time slowed. The ground under his feet thickened until he felt like he was running through a marsh instead of a field. His feet were damp and cold. He and his horse struggled along beside one another for a time. Tristan's self-awareness was fleeting. He felt blind, though he could see the field and rolling hills before him. Slowly, the grass began to churn like water as it had before. He might as well have been running on his head, his sense of time and distance was vague. Then, it was as if a bright light was held in front of his eyes. He kept running. The blindness felt no different though he could no longer see anything at all. Twice he stumbled. His steady grip on the reigns saved them from tumbling all the way. His chest heaved with the exertion. The light in his eyes turned to shadows, though they still felt bright and hot.

Like a light, the shadows went out.

Tristan stopped running. The feeling of danger slipped out of him like water. The only sound and feeling was that of his labored breathing and that of his horse's. Ahead, he saw a river.

He looked back, startled to see a tall, dark, marsh-like woods looming like a sleeping giant. It was night and the moon was hidden behind clouds. Instinctively, Tristan checked Ellessah for pulse and breath. Both were satisfactory, perhaps better even than they had been back on the road. He lifted her over the saddle and draped her there on her stomach then looked around, his eyes and senses still adjusting to the land.

"How has it been so long?" he asked aloud, in bewilderment.

"I apologize," a soft voice interrupted from behind, "that I could not retrieve you sooner."

Tristan spun on his heel, drawing an arrow into his bow. The face was unfamiliar, a set of sullen gray eyes framed below a patch of shockingly white hair. He was quite young, the green and purple garb he wore giving him away as a member of Horta Promessa. "Who are you? What do you want?"

"I assure you, I intend you no harm," the man said as he slowly raised his open hands and offered their emptiness to Tristan. "There is little time to explain for I must get away before we are discovered together. My name is Ibis, though that is unimportant. What matters is that I owe your King a generous life debt, which I am fulfilling by rescuing you both."

Tristan raised his aim to the height of Ibis's head. "Why would a member of Horta Promessa concern himself with paying back such a thing?"

At this, Ibis looked uncomfortable and vaguely uncertain. "That matters not. This was my choice." He stepped to the side and gestured to the woods. "You were being hunted by my kith and kin. They had attached an illusion spell to the poison planted in the King by the Scotsman. You never reached the road you meant to be on, as it was all a deception. You have traveled southwest instead of east. They wished to draw you close to the border of Wales. Why I shall not say. When you stopped last to treat her wounds, you were attacked by a band of our skeleton soldiers. I prevented them from killing you in your dream state and sent you in a direction that would confuse and dispel the illusion."

"I still don't understand why you would risk your reputation with your league to save us. If their magic has grown so powerful, who is to say you are not already discovered?"

"The magic was not of Horta Promessa. It was gifted to us. I am unaware of where from exactly. It had only one use and purpose. They will know it has been disrupted. They will not be able to determine how or why." Ibis regarded Tristan's guarded stance and the limp body of the girl-king with a pitying eye. His stiff posture suggested he wanted to say more. He turned his back to them and pointed up the river. "Cross the river at the forge and follow it until you find the first town. You will desire to stay there when the storm is at your back, but I will suggest strongly that you go to the hills and find a cave to shelter in until morning. You will know how to get home from there."

"Why should I take your advice?"

Ibis half turned back, his sharp glare revealing the potent ire his generally cool demeanor kept masked.

Tristan could not help but think the young man reminded him of Galahad, but with a foreigner's dark skin.

"She would gladly take it were the roles reversed," Ibis mocked loudly. "Thus far, I can see that you have been too late, too blind, and too unwilling to save her. You would scorn Tiberius's desire for the sword, and yet you returned to retrieve it, giving us time to track you."

Tristan lowered his bow. "And this was truly the first opportunity you had to help us?"

Ibis waved away the question with a dismissive gesture. He lowered his face and stared dispassionately at Ellessah. It was an uncomfortable silence that passed, though brief. Ibis appeared regretful and sullen. "I saved you only because I already failed her."

Uncertain of how to reply, Tristan remained silent.

"Loyalties run deep, do they not?" Ibis offered slowly. "Deep enough to kill?"

"What does that-"

"Take care that you do not trust your eyes from here on. I am out of time. I pray her comrades find you quickly when they realize you are not on that road. Farewell." With that, Ibis turned and dashed into the marsh, vanishing as if vapor on the wind.

Tristan relaxed his already drooping bow to his side. He sheathed the unused arrow to his quiver and shouldered his bow.

The interaction had kept his adrenaline going, but now the exhaustion set into his limbs. They had been riding all day without proper relief. He and his horse were exhausted, the King's health in decline. They were miles off course at a time when they might otherwise be seeing help closing the distance. For all the assistance Ibis had claimed he was providing, the situation felt bleak. Tristan looked to the dark sky, the assassin's words stirring him. "Perhaps, I am a hypocrite after all." He loosed a bitter, nervous chuckle. "Too late, too blind, and too unwilling, eh?" He scratched his beard before dropping his hand to his side with a sigh.


	8. Chapter 8

Around 2 AM, hours after separating from the army to rush ahead, Lancelot and Mordred broke the tree line at the northern edge of the camp. They galloped in, calling out loudly for the camp medics and aides. The place seemed deserted. Save for a fire smoldering at the center of camp, the only point of activity was on the other side of the open quad, visible as they crossed out of the clusters of tents, where a man and a woman were struggling to calm an agitated horse. As they trotted past the fire, Mordred slowed his horse to a walk and swung down. Lancelot waited until they were closer, stopping his horse altogether at a distance before dismounting.

The knights looked solemnly at each other, a shared recognition of the horse in question occurring.

"What is wrong with the King's horse?" Lancelot's stern tone made Mordred glance at him in surprise.

With barely a respect made to the knights' presence, the man grunted and yanked on the reigns as Cavall tossed his head about irately.

"He's straight lost his horse mind since they vanished into the woods and he returned without his rider. We would tie him up and leave him be, but he chews through the ropes and comes after us nipping and biting."

Mordred grimaced and cast a worried glance around. "We have very little information regarding what has transpired here since the army left. Can you fill us in? What happened to the King? Did the knights Tristan and Galahad ever arrive here?"

The woman flinched, as Cavall tried again to nip her hand where she held his bridle. She stepped away with a squeal and wrung her hands looking pleadingly at the male servant who waved her away begrudgingly. She clapped her hands together emphatically and held them against her chest. "My lords, there were five of us left here, excluding her majesty, the King; there were two medics, two male servants and myself. The men and I had gone into the woods to chop firewood while the medics organized the medical tents for the army's return. Her majesty was sitting there," she said pointing, "by that fire, cooking soup, last I saw her. So, we did not see exactly what happened to her, but when we returned, one medic had been stabbed and gravely injured and the other medic was tending to him. He told us that a tall, monstrous Scotsman had attacked her majesty and that she had fled into the woods bareback on this horse."

While the woman had been explaining the sequence of events, Lancelot had moved to look at Cavall squarely. The agitated horse seemed to finally notice him, but continued struggling against the man. The two locked eyes and after a moment of this, Lancelot motioned for the man to back away and release the horse. Cavall, almost immediately, shook his head with a huff and after one last glare at the man, returned to looking at the knight. The horse took two steps forward then, as Lancelot raised both hands up, palms out, nudged his head forward against them and whinnied pitifully.

"Is that so?" The man exclaimed, looking as if he had expected Lancelot's hands to be mere stubs. "I'll be glad to leave him in your care since that's his preference."

"This horse is Cavall, the King's steed." Lancelot corrected the man in a calm, flat tone. "His treatment of you is not your fault necessarily."

The woman, whose mouth had hung open at the sight of Cavall's change in behavior, clamped it shut and cleared her throat. Lancelot's vague explanation hung awkwardly, but he seemed to notice the woman's hesitation. "Go ahead with your story."

"Well," she began haltingly, "I'm afraid to say, but we fear she hadn't gotten far on bareback in her state because Cavall here returned without rider, but with her belt and sheath a couple of hours later."

"What state was the King in?" Mordred interrupted.

"She had been wounded in the leg. The medic who survived uninjured only did so by remaining hidden in his tent. He told us he heard her majesty scream and plead with that horrible man, but a glimpse of blood on her thigh was all he could get."

"So, he was a coward." Mordred said dryly. He looked to Lancelot who frowned but shook his head against adding anything to the other knight's opinion. The blonde scoffed a "humph" then placed his hands on his hips cocked his head at the servants. "Have any knights been through here?"

The woman nodded nervously, wringing her hands now at Mordred's demanding tone and posture. "Y-yes, m'lord. The medic told us Sir Tristan arrived shortly after the Scotts departed to pursue the King. He left right away and another, Sir Galahad, arrived shortly after that. He stayed a bit, gathering information, and was here when we arrived." She glanced at the male servant questioningly, and he immediately waved her off, crossing his arms with a grim look. "He was behaving quite oddly, if I may offer, my opinion, m'lords."

"Why do you say that?" asked Mordred.

"He came and went from the camp several times, but he said very little so we don't know what he was doing. Sir Tristan never returned so we wondered why Sir Galahad did not pursue the King as intently. He was quite perturbed, though, at Cavall's return to camp and we have not seen him again since then." 

Lancelot patted Cavall's head and stared around the edges of the camp. 

Mordred folded his arms and placed a finger to his lips as he bowed his head thoughtfully. "Which direction did they go in?"

"Cavall returned from the east and all of the tracks head that way." The male servant offered quickly. "It has been more'n half a day since last we heard from any of them. You probably left to ride here around the time the King was attacked—assuming you left the army behind in Gordona and hurried here by yourselves—if there is anything left in those woods, it will be only bodies by now."

Mordred knitted his brow. "Why do you say that?"

"Tiberius had three henchmen with him. The knights were out numbered. Why else has no one returned?"

Lancelot pursed his lips and patted Cavall resignedly. "You are not wrong. The events are amiss and troubling."

"Where is the King's sword now?" Mordred asked quickly.

The servants passed a look of surprise and worry between them. "We haven't the faintest idea," said the woman. "I mentioned the horse came back with the belt and sheath; I meant only the belt and sheath. The sword was gone."

"Perfect," grumbled Mordred, "have you gathered enough useless information to go look for her now, Lancelot?"

"You were the one asking questions," replied Lancelot, who raised his brow. "Cavall is all we need. I think he knows where she is."

Mordred dropped his arms to his side and gave Lancelot a look of annoyance before turning on his heel and taking quick, fuming strides to his horse, mounting without another word.

Lancelot thanked the two servants for their time and led Cavall to his steed. Keeping hold of the rider-less horse's reigns, he mounted his own, turned his horse and addressed the servants one last time. "Since we do not know how far the chase has gone, whether our knights are in pursuit of the Scotts or lay dead on the forest floor, I cannot guarantee we will come back here. It is also possible Tristan and Galahad would take the King to Camelot instead of back here were she injured severely. Tell the knights that come with the army to get the troops home before attempting any further investigation. Tell them everything you told me as well as what I just told you. They will be hard to convince but this is an order, not a request."

As the servants bowed receptively, the knights guided their horses to an eastern facing and took to a trot. Lancelot side-eyed Mordred curiously, waiting to see if the younger knight would have any bitter remarks about the exchange. He was relieved when, as they reached the forest edge, he had still said nothing. Mordred had the unforgiving tendency to become vindicated when an insight was not immediately shared with him. It was not that he had not planned to share the insight about Cavall's behavior, but Mordred had, as he expected, desired to leave as soon as they had a solid lead. That attitude often led to a significant waste of information resources, but Lancelot hurriedly set aside those concerns.

They were proceeding to enter the woods; the smell of rotting leaves and moss immediately replacing the cool, though smoky, night air of the camp. The trees in this wood were clustered and often distant, the space between filled with fallen logs, thickets, and rocky outcrops.

"The woods on this side look easy enough to navigate, same as the north." Lancelot observed openly.

Mordred frowned. "We should take some time to follow the tracks left here."

Lancelot's eyes softened as he smiled warmly at his companion. "I think that would be a waste of time." He pulled Cavall near to him and briefly released his own reigns to tie up Cavall's so they didn't dangle. In a moment, he had given the horse's rump a solid thwack and shouted, "To the King!" Which sent Cavall galloping into the woods.

Mordred sat astride his horse, wide eyed as he watched Cavall disappearing into the trees. He turned his wholly bewildered look to Lancelot.

The older, dark haired leader returned the knight's look with the same, soft smile as before. His eyes brightened as he took back up the reigns of his horse. "After me then," he said, before starting into the chase.

"Hey!" Mordred shouted and urged his horse to follow.

Lancelot chuckled to himself as the sound of Mordred's complaint was overwhelmed by the sounds of hoof over leaf and twig. He felt a little guilty about teasing him so aggressively. It was, nonetheless, imperative that Mordred practice following a lead without giving input. With as many Knights of the Round Table as there were, it was important to Lancelot that they were not all trying to have a say at the same time; offering opinions, perhaps, but without expectation. Mordred, being one of the newest knights to the table, still did not quite understand that concept. As the ranting quieted progressively, Lancelot felt reassured that Mordred would eventually learn to relax.

All the while, Cavall's trajectory had remained sure and steady. The horse's ears were back, head straining forward as he galloped. To be sure, he was headed somewhere in particular. With any luck that particular would be either the King or the sword or both. Cavall slowed as they approached a dense circle of trees. His ears perked up and his tail thrashed nervously as he erected his neck to look about. As he entered the circle, the horse bent his head to rustle through the leaves with his nose.

Mordred brought his horse up alongside Lancelot's, both watching Cavall. A red splattering on the leaves the horse rustled about near a particular wide tree trunk caught both of their eyes. Mordred, with a cry of dismay, moved to dismount. A quick gesture from Lancelot stilled him.

"It doesn't seem like this is Cavall's last stop. He is looking for a trail."

"But-"

"We know the King was injured. Losing sight of Cavall will be far worse than what little we will lose out on gathering here." Lancelot turned his horse and moved to follow Cavall's lead.

"Lancelot," Mordred demanded loudly, "how can you be so cold? Do you not see what I see?" Before he could restrain himself, he had begun shouting, gesturing sharply at the scene around them. As his horse grew agitated beneath him, they shifted about as he tried to remain facing the other knight. "There is blood on the forest floor, tatters of her dress are on the tree; if this is from an attack on the King, then she is in grave danger."

"I have no time for feelings, Mordred." Lancelot said stiffly, his back to the blonde haired knight. In a lower, huskier voice he added, "It is my duty to find her and ensure that she is safe or to confirm that she is dead. In the latter case, I will find the Holy Sword and bring it back to the people so that we may find a new King. I lead the round table. It is my responsibility to guide the rest of you without faltering and to protect England, by whatever means necessary. It is your duty to follow my leadership."

Mordred stared, trembling with rage. He said nothing.

Lancelot let go a shallow, short sigh. "Let us keep searching."

At the sound of Mordred tapping his heel into his horse, Lancelot did similarly and they set off again to follow Cavall. The latter was grateful for the former's silence, conscious that the even more passionate Gawain had nearly been his partner in this quest. Heaven forbid he had been forced to talk that red head down. It would not have gone as well.

The King's horse had watched them while continuing to snuffle through the leaves and air, his tail switching in what could be perceived as irritation. As the knights gained, he set off at a canter. At that speed, they soon arrived at a twin-trunked oak. Here, Cavall stopped and nosed the seam of the trunks, seeming surprised at it. His ears flattened and perked in succession as he sniffed the tree, the ground and back.

Lancelot observed Cavall's behavior with uncertainty. He certainly seemed to be enthralled by the spot. Perhaps there was something of interest here.

"There is blood on that rock," Mordred remarked stonily.

"So there is. And, perhaps, something here in the tree." Lancelot slid down from his saddle, slipped his reigns around a nearby branch and crossed to the oak. Cavall glanced at his approach and huffed with a shiver of his head and mane. He turned grudgingly and continued his search of the forest floor. Lancelot peered into the seam of the tree and seeing nothing at first, leaned in more closely.

Mordred sidled up to Lancelot, peering over his shoulder.

"There is something in here." Lancelot said with evident surprise.

"Is it the sword?" Excitement nearly cracked Mordred's voice.

"No," Lancelot grunted as he reached into the seam, "looks like a note." Upon retrieving a square piece of paper from inside of the tree, he flipped it quickly to look at both sides. "It has Horta Promessa's symbol on it."

Mordred's nostril's flared. "It looks like it has a bunch of writing on it."

"It says that they have obtained the sword and taken it to a western stronghold. They are urging their comrades to follow."

"They may have the King as well, then."

Lancelot frowned and turned the note a few more times, pondering it. "Seems unlikely they have either. This note is very unlike the Horta that I have experienced."

The excitement in Mordred faded. "Ah. You are right. I've never seen them leave a message that wasn't coded. It's bait, then?"

"We don't know that for certain either." Lancelot held out the message at eye level. He glanced in Cavall's direction, noting that the horse had moved some distance from them, but that it had not abandoned its olfactory-based search. "One account says it is purely bait. Another, however, could be that Lucius left this here and would have us waste our time chasing shadows. Or he could have been betrayed by Horta for a higher paying client."

"Morgau-!"

Lancelot clapped his hand over Mordred's mouth, his expression darkening. "Too soon to think such a thing." He flicked a glance to Cavall, to indicate him. "We should get back to our horses."

Cavall's head had shot straight up, ears high. He looked to be about to bolt at any moment. The most unnerving part to Lancelot was that he stared directly at the knights in this pose, frozen. The older knight gritted his teeth, regretting that he hadn't tied Cavall up after he had decided to spend some time investigating.

The two separated, creeping back toward their horses as carefully as they could. Before they could get more than three steps, however, Cavall began to step frantically backward. He whinnied and huffed loudly. Mordred looked anxiously to Lancelot.

In that moment, a burst, like a drum shredding upon being struck, cracked through the woods around them. It had come from inside of the tree seam. A rancid, stinging smoke filled the air. Lancelot ran forward, hoping to grab a hold of Cavall, but it was already too late. He could feel the dirt kicked up by Cavall's explosive gallop strike his face and neck. Even as he continued running forward, coughing all the while, to find a clear visual through the smoke, he could hear the hoof beat disappearing into the woods. Mordred shot past him on his horse and Lancelot remembered another reason why he had preferred to have him along rather than Gawain. He had untied the reigns, mounted, and found the proper course of direction completely blind and apparently without taking a breath, as he seemed unaffected by the smoke's irritating composition. As a knight, he was as clever and unyielding as he was in conversation. It was an advantage at times like this.

Lancelot turned his attention to being sure that no enemies were descending upon him while he too sought to release his horse. As the smoke was already clearing, he made no effort to move away from the area. Once astride he looked at the message in his hand, now slightly crumpled. Their enemy had either anticipated the situation or had gotten lucky. If they lost Cavall, it was a blow either way. He gritted his teeth with an angry grimace and balled his fist around the message.

The pair reconvened awhile later at the edge of a creek, Mordred's face offering a somber, sullen expression. "That horse is remarkably fast. I tracked him here but the water has already erased all signs of his path. It was as if he desired to lose me."

"There is nothing left then but to do some reconnaissance tracking to be sure there are no bodies hidden somewhere then return to camp and wait for the others. I will have their input before we decide which way to send riders." Lancelot pocketed the message and took hold of his reigns with both hands, guiding his horse to turn around.

Mordred pursed his lips pensively. "Despite how urgently I feel we should be trailing the King, your logic is sound. Based on the state of the forest as well as how long the blood appears to have been left here, they must be only a few hours ahead of us. With no idea of which direction to go or whether we will be following the King or the sword or either one at all, we would waste more time by not involving the other knights in the search."

"Those were my thoughts, Mordred. We have until late morning for the troops to arrive at camp. Let us trace every set of tracks from here until we have a clear map of where each of the players in this game went and what they were doing. Then we may know better what to believe happened to our Princess-King."


	9. Chapter 9

Galahad could feel his heart pumping in his chest as he sprinted up the stairs to Merlin's tower, taking two at a time. Slits that served as windows in the stone walls flashed by, showing the color vanishing from the sky as dusk came. It had been a little less than a day since leaving the King behind with Tristan. An unfamiliar pang of worry was throbbing in his chest behind his sternum. Only an hour after leaving, he had thought better of having done so but there was no time to turn back. It was true that the King's health had appeared dire, but then Tristan had still insisted on taking the King back toward danger to recover the sword instead of heading immediately to Camelot with her. On the one hand, he could see why they would want to prevent the sword from being snatched by an enemy, on the other hand, so long as the Lady Ellessah lived, she could rule, with or without the sword. It showed, he thought grimly to himself, that Tristan yet hoped another king would be appointed.

His gloomy thoughts flanked him as he arrived at the tall, thick, wooden door of Merlin's chambers. One could hardly tell in the dark of the hallway, but the door had curving and twisting symbols carved into it that were very alike the tattoos that riddled the wizard's body. Presumably, they were symbols of protection against other magic, but Galahad had never desired to ask the eccentric advisor about such things. His fist struck the door with fervent urgency as he cried out, "Merlin! Get dressed and come with me!" He continued pounding and calling the wizard's name for a minute before the door creaked open. Light from the room poured out and dripped down the shadowy stairs at his back. Simultaneously, the light cast a shadow over Merlin's expression as he looked down at the breathless and panting young knight.

"Galahad? How very unexpected."

"There is no time for you to be surprised. Come with me."

Merlin frowned, though the young knight could barely see it with the light from the room in his eyes. "I assume if you have left the battle early to fetch me that my magic is needed. Perhaps you would like to come in and tell me what has happened so that I can pack my supplies accordingly?" He lifted a hand to protest, interrupting Galahad as he started in with further demands. "I will insist on not having this conversation here, in case it is sensitive in nature; as it seems to be by the scowl on your face." The wizard stepped back and ushered the knight into his chambers, peering warily down the stairs as he slid the door shut. Once the latch clicked into place, he turned in a flurry of his cloak and gestured to a wooden chair by the bed. "Please, rest. You look as if you've been awake for several days."

Galahad frowned in annoyance, but obeyed. He clutched the fabric of his tunic as he sat and waited.

The wizard tinkered with some glass vials on a table on the far side of the room before eyeing the young knight who sat seething with unrest in his chambers. "I'm sorry to delay our departure. However, it is important that watchful eyes do not see us rush from here with fear as a master. If we look to be in control, it may disrupt any plans to be in set in motion here." Merlin cocked his head at Galahad. "Perhaps your insights will enlighten me."

With the invitation to speak, the story began to pour from Galahad's mouth without restraint. He spoke of their oversight and Lucius sneaking around the battle to their camp. He explained how he had trailed Tristan and that the other knight had taken her, gravely injured, on his horse toward the northern highway near Sherwood. He admitted he had not gotten to see the wounds himself, but that Tristan had been adamant about needing Merlin to meet them and that she would be unable to withstand a hard ride.

Merlin had turned his back in the meantime and went about absently tinkering with the vials as he listened. When Galahad paused, he looked back at him quickly. "Where were you while he tended her wounds?"

"I was hunting down three henchman of Lucius's who were searching the woods for the Holy Sword."

"And you were successful?"

"Yes."

A book was laid out on table with the vials. Merlin turned a page in it, the quick rustle seeming to echo against the walls of stone. "Sounds like the sword was hidden intentionally. Where is it now?"

"Her majesty hid the sword during her flight from camp into the nearby woods. Tristan was heading with her to find it, as we suspected it to have shrouded itself in her absence. I don't know what has happened since I left."

"It is a perilous situation, isn't it?" Merlin's murmur seemed more for himself. He went about messing with his vials more quickly, seemingly no longer interested in asking any questions. Finally, after pouring one vial into another, a pouf of smoke broke the silence. He turned as he poured at eye level what was now a powder into a bag. "I am a little surprised you would leave our dear Princess-King with Tristan, knowing how you have felt about him as of late."

Galahad stiffened. "There was little choice," he said bitterly.

"I am aware. So many of the paths before you would have easily led to failure. I'm sure Tristan considered all of them when he decided to delay to find the sword. Had it fallen into enemy hands, the only task left for them would have been to ensure her death." Merlin strode across the room, small bag of powder in hand, and began rustling in a large saddlebag that Galahad had not noticed before. "We should be relieved to know that the Princess-King's instincts are so good. I have not yet taught her about the sword's power."

The young knight shifted uncomfortably. "You think Tristan was right to go back for the sword?"

"I think it would have been better if you had held back to take it with you instead of leaving it with them, assuming it could be found, but what's done is done. If we are lucky, the enemy will not have realized it left the forest and continue expending efforts there to find it." Merlin closed the bag and fastened it shut. "If we are lucky," he emphasized.

"Honestly, I feel like I do not understand the sword all that well. Lucius would seek to take the sword, but it chooses its master. Tristan acted like someone could become king by stealing the sword, but I did not think that was possible."

"Those facts are not mutually exclusive. The sword would betray any who would attempt to use it against England, so long as the King lives. The exception happens when they kill the King while in possession of the sword. The sword has the potential to choose to obey its new master because its power would be greatly weakened in that scenario."

Galahad could feel his face turning red as he held his breath. "The King and the sword would need to be delivered together to Lucius for him to truly have a shot at acquiring it?"

"Yes, exactly. Hence why I said it would have been better for you to take it." Merlin cocked his head and placed a hand on his hip as he regarded Galahad. "Something worries you about that in particular?"

Galahad stood abruptly. "I think we should get going. If we leave now we should intercept them by early morning."

Merlin raised a speculative eyebrow at the knight, but did not object. "So long as we avoid rushing until we are away from the eyes of Camelot. My horse is already saddled anyway."

As they headed out of Merlin's chambers and back down the steps, Galahad swallowed futilely at the lump behind his sternum. The wizard's relative calmness about the situation did nothing to ease his concerns. It made his blood run cold knowing that Tristan had everything he needed to betray them.

* * *

Merlin was unexpectedly quiet for the first half of the night's ride. It may have been partly due to the unrestrained gallop at which they traveled, and perhaps even more so the miserable rain that began to pour down shortly after departing, but the wizard was known for attempting to make light conversation and jokes under any circumstance if the mood struck him. Galahad did not exactly care, focused on his own thoughts as he was; he was relieved to not be treated like the evening's entertainment.

The shadowy woods and dark fields of the land rushed by in such a blur that, if he watched them for too long, they left the exhausted knight feeling dizzy. He felt an indulgent hope that he would be able to sleep for a bit while Merlin treated the King's wounds. If Tristan had made good time, they could be running into each other at any moment. Even if they had made poor time, the meeting would occur within a few hours.

The sooner they met the better, for his nerves, at least.

Time and the land marched onward. As the rain tapered and a breeze from the south kicked up, the clouds parted enough to see the sun burst out from the horizon. They steadily began to slow their pace and spend more time looking around. They had come upon the lake so there was only one direction Tristan and the girl-king would even be camping at this point, if they hadn't gotten up yet to press on. Another hour later, Galahad's demeanor was beginning to crack.

Merlin also seemed perturbed. "You said we would meet them by now, yes?"

The knight nodded an apprehensive confirmation.

"We would not have missed them; too few places to hide on this road. Who picked this route anyway?"

"Tristan did," Galahad muttered.

"Oh. Seems like him to want to see the enemies coming."

Galahad did not feel like replying.

They pressed on in silence.

Another hour or so later, the sun was full and bright and their clothes were drying substantially. They had been switching between trot and canter since the sun had come up. Even with the frequent reductions in speed, they arrived at the far edge of the lake before the afternoon. Galahad stopped his horse, staring down the road while Merlin shifted uncomfortably and turned his horse around and around again, checking both directions with a frown.

"We could ride back awhile and make sure they weren't camping off the road." Merlin said smoothly.

"They weren't."

"I would go with you to check if it made you feel better," Merlin offered with a cheeky smile. "But I also don't think we missed them."

"We'll continue to the camp and reconvene with the army." Galahad's words were bitter and cold. He held his reigns tightly in one hand while the other rested on the hilt of his long sword.

"It's possible the Princess-King took a turn for the worse and they were forced to turn back." With a shrug, Merlin turned his horse westward. "I can try to track them with magic from there if we go to the last place you saw them."

"Merlin?"

"Yes?"

Galahad's expression was serious, anger highlighting its sharp edges as he turned his head to look at Merlin directly. "Why do you insist on trying to excuse Tristan? Do you not realize how treasonous he looks now?"

"Ah." Merlin cocked his head back as he regarded Galahad. "Perhaps because there are too many honest reasons for them to not be here to assume a loyal knight like Tristan has run off with the King."

"Loyal? He's certainly made it clear where his loyalty stands with her. He despises her."

Merlin stifled a laugh and under his breath—eyes narrowed—whispered, "And you are so sure about that?" He swung his horse around again. "I suppose you are convinced of his deviousness. And if I continue to defend him you will lose trust with me?"

As he looked pointedly at Galahad, the knight made no move. His erect posture and the harsh, flat line of his mouth exuded his opinion.

Merlin sighed. "I will stop trying to comfort you. Believe what you must. I will do what I can to find them, of that you can be sure."

"Good." Galahad commanded his horse to walk. "Mordred and many of the others feel as I do. I would recommend against comforting them also."

The knight had spat the word "comforting" with a mocking lilt, leaving Merlin sighing. He paused, looking southward through the ceiling of the woods where a hawk soared overhead, before following after Galahad towards the west.

* * *

 _Readers:_ If I can, I will get more chapters posted this month. I have them, but I've been debating making some drastic changes to the plot and it's kind of a now or never. We'll see. Let me know what you think of it so far because that will help me decide. As usual, thanks for reading!


	10. Chapter 10

If you're still here from when I first started publishing, bless you. I am still working on this fic, and I have lots done, but I've been doing a lot of editing and I'm still somewhat stuck on my subplot and how it fits into things.

In the meantime, please enjoy this chapter. It is my favorite that I've written thus far.

* * *

The rain started within the hour after the King and her knight parted ways with the mercenary named Ibis. It was a heavy, sodden downpour, with little wind to speak of, which quickly churned the road into slick mud. Tristan could feel the full weight of several days without sleep and a hard ride through hallucinatory magic. He struggled to guide the horse as he supported the girl-king's body, all the while searching for signs of the village. Ellessah had become fitful and hot. Tristan was eager for the cavern shelters Ibis had spoken of. In some ways, the knight still felt torn as to whether to take the assassin's advice or not, but he agreed they would not be able to sleep in the town. At least in the cave they would be away from curious eyes.

Around a bend in the road, the glow of torches and candles in windows could be seen at a distance. Tristan blinked as rain dribbled down his face, his eyes tracing the town to the woods and back again. With a grimace, he turned them towards the shadow of the trees.

After some brief reconnaissance, Tristan was pleasantly surprised to find that there were several caves in a few of the hillsides surrounding the town. He chose one with an opening tall enough to ride in and out of, but which was very narrow. It was also facing south, away from the town, so light from a fire would not immediately attract notice. He made quick work of getting Ellessah comfortable in a stony niche, and then went about starting a fire at a warming distance to her with what dry kindling he could find around the mouth of the cave. After watering his horse, he removed the packs and was relieved to find that the blanket kept at the bottom had survived the journey relatively dry. He brought it along as he sat by the fire to eat a meager portion of the dry rations.

Across from him, Ellessah was surely warmer than before, but he frowned at the water pooling from her wet clothes. He was likewise keenly aware of his own puddle that was threatening the blanket, and the chill that was setting in despite the fire. With his last bite, Tristan sighed and stripped off his own shirt, laying it on the ground a safe distance from the fire. Then he crossed to Ellessah, wrapped an arm under her uninjured shoulder and around her back so he could cradle her and sat with his back to the rock wall. Heat raged in her forehead as he laid his palm against it. He moved quickly to undo the cloth that he had fashioned into her belt, so crudely retied in the flurry to escape the hallucinatory road. As he struggled, she shifted and took a laborious breath, which froze his movements. His eyes glued themselves to her lips as they quivered.

As if in a trance, Tristan finished removing his coat from her without averting his eyes. The sleeves of her dress slipped off more easily than he was anticipating and, after he peeled the remainder from between them, he tossed it aside as she shifted in the crook of his arm.

Tristan was numb, holding his breath as his hand went to her cheek. The rain had washed off the remaining dried blood, but now her hair clumped, damp lengths of it trailing across his shoulder and over the bandages he had wrapped clumsily around her chest. Shadows skirted across them, cast by a growing fire, which lapped hungrily at its wood. He regarded Ellessah in the shifting light as he pushed a clump of her wet bangs up, away from her eyes before skimming his finger gently behind her ear, trailing it downward until it slipped under her chin. He tilted her face towards his own and drew his thumb across her mouth at an angle, pulling it down with a curious twitch of his brow until her lips parted slightly.

The moment was brief before her chin twitched in his grasp. Her eyes opening droopily, catching his own; he quickly broke the gaze by pushing his head against the rock behind him and staring at the ceiling. He gritted his teeth against the pounding in his chest.

A minute later, Tristan snuck a downward glance without moving his head, to see if she was still looking at him. She was soundly asleep. He let go a heavy sigh and stared through the fire to the entrance of the cave. There was no sign the rain would let up soon. He looked at the crumpled pile of her clothes that would surely never dry, but wearily abandoned the thought of adjusting them, instead pulling the blanket by its closest corner, just in reach, and draping it their huddled bodies.

As his eyes closed and his consciousness began to sink beneath his body's exhaustion, images of Ellessah lying beneath Lucius jerked him awake as soon as they were remembered. He dropped his head back against the rock wall. The sting distracted him long enough to take a hissing breathe, with guilt and confusion washing over him, fading with the pain as it ebbed. He found himself left with the memory of her lying in the woods with a ruthless, monstrous figure violently desecrating her. In his memory of her expression, he could see her unabashedly facing her attacker with the only weapon she had left.

Now, she had no memory of her own cutting resolve.

Tristan stared at the cavern's roof, his temperament leveling off. He thought harder about getting up, about putting distance between them, but somberly dismissed the urge. She needed his care, if he could call it that.

Tristan relived the feeling of his thumb slipping between her lips even as he imagined Ellessah dismissing him from her service. For the first time, he noted a feeling of unwillingness at the possibility of being sent away from the castle.

Exhausted, his consciousness sank away from his thoughts and he became submerged in the growing shadows. As he began to dream, his ears were filled with the sound of Lucius's booming voice echoing the successes of his murderous intentions. He saw England burning and blood gushing from the mouth of its young, female King which then streamed over his face, drowning him, while he continued struggling to choke out desperate, final commands to their failing army. The other knights, as they suffered their respective ends begged him to save their King and he watched, frozen, as the Scottish commander pounced upon Ellessah's wounded body and began devouring it. The commander's contemptible voice decrying his gruesome victory over England, holding the King's head up by her hair even as Tristan felt enemy blades entering his body, his blood mingling with the river from his fallen countrymen.

Steadily, Lucius's voice began to round out in pitch, rising into that of a woman's until it turned sharply inquisitive in tone. He roused from the nightmare.

"Really? A knight of the round is sleeping here alone with this waif? A child could kill you, if they wanted. I'm at least stronger than a child."

The fire had burned down to hot embers and the sound of the rain outside had stopped. A silhouette in the dim light, Tristan saw the old woman's bent figure, leaning on a cane to his left. He sprang to his feet, sheathed sword in hand.

When Ellessah's absence from his lap became clear to him, the knight pulled his sword and pointed it threateningly. "Who are you?"

"Well, now, that's more spritely and becoming of a dashing knight," she said as she turned her back to him. "Let us see if I cannot get this a bit brighter and hotter before we sit down to chat, hmm?" With a cackle, the woman shoved the tip of her cane into the embers and began to stir. She chanted something unintelligible to his ears and, around the third rotation, the embers seemed to thicken, piling up until they became a sizable mound on the floor. She took the end of the cane in two hands and pulled hard, a squelching sound as if she were pulling it from mud echoing in the cave. The cane came free with a pop and flames burst forth, looking like a proper fire, stacked wood and all.

Tristan grimly acknowledged to himself that the woman before him was no mere village elder. He had only ever seen Merlin perform such feats before, though even his displays were not usually so lurid. Now, he could see her face. It was twisted atop a neck and shoulders that seemed determined to face the wall. She did not actually look all that old; her visage, nearly that of a young woman's, was half hidden beneath a curly mop of dark hair that draped wildly over her head, neck, shoulders and arms. Her lips curled up into a pretentious, sideways smile.

"Are you enamored with me already?" asked the woman gleefully.

"No." He gripped the hilt of his sword more firmly.

"Pity." The woman replied in a murmured tone that implied neither disappointment nor surprised.

All the while, Tristan was able to see the rest of the cave and who else was there. Two unusually large wolves, one black and one silver, stood between the fire and the entrance to the cave. He estimated that their heads would be up to his chest on all fours. Ellessah lay motionless between them. The woman lifted a gnarled, thin hand to gesture in that direction.

"My sons, Dub and Dother." She brought the hand over her chest and bobbed her head gently. "And I am Carman."

"What do you want with us?"

"I'll be honest about that," Carman said woefully, "both of the spells you suffered yesterday were born of me. I was curious to meet you since you broke my spell of the journey, which was a very good spell. You should have been in Wales by now, seeing the walls of your Camelot disappear before your eyes as the spell tired on its own. But I see now that you are not very powerful and that she is the one who broke it."

"I'm not sure you know what happened, then."

"Oh, but I do." Carman spat out mockingly. "You doubt her power, but she convinced a man of Horta Promessa to betray his kin. You would do well to not underestimate her charm, but, then again, it's probably too late for you."

"Will you kill him?" Tristan asked flatly.

"Fire and fall, of course not! The Horta have built their lives on being pawns in other's games. She earned his help fair and square. Most forget that money is master to some, but nothing to many." Carman tapped her cane tentatively on the stone floor as she paused her rambling to turn her head and eye Ellessah. She looked back to Tristan, her head cocked, which was very strange looking at its already lilted angle. She licked her bottom lip. "We should sit now and have a look at your woman."

"What do you want with her?"

"You should ask yourself that," Carmen retorted haughtily. Without pausing she continued, "I came here with an offer you won't refuse."

"I somehow doubt you mean for me to have a choice."

Carmen's lips peeled back gleefully. "Clever knight." She gestured curtly with her cane and the wolves got to their feet from their haunches.

Tristan started forward with a jerky, hesitant step as the wolves closed their teeth down on Ellessah's arm and leg. Based on the size of the incisors they revealed with a curl of their lips, they could easily tear the girl-king limb from limb in seconds, yet their motions were surprisingly gentle and coordinated. She was soon laid on the floor between himself and Carman where she gestured for them to sit facing. He made a quick visual check, but there was not a new scratch that he could attribute to a fang.

In the meantime, Carman had leaned forward and removed the bandages from the shoulder and leg wounds. The black streaks had lengthened, reaching as far as the base of her neck to the elbow and from abdomen to knee. Tristan grimaced at the sight. Carman sat back on her heels and began using the cane to trace along the blackness as she spoke. "Your woman is blighted. For now, it exhausts her, gives her intermittent fever and will keep her wounds from ever healing. If allowed to progress, her mind will rot and her heart will burst in her chest. It will be a painful death."

"Why bother telling me this?"

"Your castle tripe, Merlin the frivolous, could have easily broken this." Carman sounded venomous, her disgust hissing out from between her teeth. "He is too far from you now. She will die before two days, depending on how hard you push her." She sounded pleased.

Tristan glared uncomfortably at Carman, only occasionally taking his eyes off of her to check on Dub and Dother. "Do you expect me to give up in despair at this news?"

"No, but I do think you will beg me to save her."

"I am not too proud, but I know that will only come at a price from you." Tristan did his best to sound humble and to keep his frustration from rooting itself in his words.

"I worked hard on this blight," Carman sighed, her voice tinged with sentimental feeling. "It's much easier to curse the Earth than a human. You all are so resistant. Luckily, Lucius is quite good at damaging the human spirit and his efforts gave me the opening I needed. Now, if you expect me to undo that effort, I will, of course, want something in return."

"What did Lucius offer you?"

Carman cackled loudly. "Wouldn't you like to know? What you need from me is not worth the same as what he wanted. And I tend to charge and provide service based on the individual's potential."

"What do you think is my potential, then?"

"You're not very good at bargaining if you'll let me make my demand first." Carman scratched thoughtfully at her chin. "I'll tell you, since you insist." Dother, the silver wolf had plodded over and now slumped down against Carman's side. She lounged against him, her hand casually sifting through his fur. "I will remove the deadly blight from your girl-king and her appetite will return within the hour. In return, I want the thing you desire in your darkest dreams."

"And what is that?" He shivered at the little spark of fear he felt in his belly.

"Must I really tell you? It's your desire, after all." She watched him thinking, her raspy breathing growing louder and more excited. "Come on. You know. Must I really?" She paused again, her eyes widening with a wild lust. "A hint then, perhaps." She crawled forward on her hands and knees, trampling Ellessah as if she did not exist. Her smile was wide, cracking her face, which was twisted sideways by her crooked shoulders. Into his ear, with a breath that reeked of blood, she hissed, "Lucius's life."

Tristan recoiled. Her appearance was terrible; and as she spoke the Scottish commander's name, something deep inside of him stirred. A lump in his throat was threatening to spring forth as an eager agreement, despite his stomach churning in the space below.

She panted heavily, following his retreats without restraint. "Your bare hands would tear his heart still beating from his chest if given the chance," she cooed.

Tristan swallowed at the feeling in his throat. As he struggled to keep his excitement tamped down, he fell backwards onto his hands and tried more deliberately to eke distance between himself and Carman, which she persisted to press upon.

"That is the purest desire in the shadows of your soul. There is one other desire, which smells delicious, but it is not yet fully realized and therefore too infantile to devour." She halted in her approach of him at last, having fully crossed past Ellessah's body and Tristan having had to struggle backwards nearly a meter. Her eyes closed, the expression on her face transitioning through greed and yearning as though smelling a great feast. "The second would be so delectable, but the first suits my own desires best." Her eyes popped back open. Tristan blinked and it seemed as if she reappeared without efforts, seated haphazardly against her wolf kin once more. "So, agree to deliver Lucius's heart to me and I will save her majesty, the King of England. I think you'll agree that my desires align with your own quite well."

"If I refuse you?"

"Hm. That would be unfortunate—especially for the King of England. I'll even make it easy for you and let you communicate your readiness to deliver the heart via the Leanan-Sidhe near Camelot. She would not hesitate to serve me and seems to be another your King has charmed as of late. You won't even have to seek me out." Carman's expression drained of humor, a seriousness overcoming her. She stared intensely at Tristan. "What will it be, valiant knight? Will you save your King?"

Tristan gripped the cloth of his pant legs, startled at his own, internal, and instantaneous response. Yes, he wanted to say firmly. Yes, he could say, and they would be able to ride home without him cradling her frail body. Yes—of course, he was going to kill Lucius.

The thought occurred to him that Lucius could realize the witch's betrayal. He could run; disappear somewhere he could not be obtained as he had the last time when Uther had wanted to finish him off. "What if I am never able to kill Lucius? What if he disappears and I cannot find him?"

Carman began to cackle. As her laughter intensified, growing wilder and raucous, her body began to shake violently. Her face disappeared behind an expression of feral glee. When she at last began to quiet, though Tristan's resolve was already fairly shaken, she pushed herself to her feet using her cane, still grinning from ear to ear. "You know the answer to such an impertinent question. Your fear is unbecoming of a knight. Now, will you or won't you save your King?" She pointed her cane at Ellessah, half turned away as if to give up on the deal altogether.

"Yes," Tristan said before he was ready to hear it from his own mouth. He hesitated his next words, but decided in that moment not to regret them. "Save her."

Darkness swamped the cave as the fire Carman had lit went out without a puff of smoke. Tristan felt the brush of a figure moving past him from behind. As his eyes adjusted to the dark, light from a very early morning sky outside cast a paltry glow about the cave. The witch stood directly in front of him on the far side of Ellessah. She was taller, her spine untwisted, with her face turned down, staring at the girl-king. The two figures of Dub and Dother were there, but they were significantly changed, tall and erect with the bodies of men instead of wolves. They knelt, one by Ellessah's shoulder and the other by her thigh, and they bowed their heads until their mouths touched her wounds. Carman was chanting. Thrice she muttered, her arms stiff and trembling. As she finished, Dub and Dother began to make suckling sounds and excited moans. The sounds were horrifying and in the dim light, Tristan could just make out the sight of liquid dribbling from their mouths. They began to lap greedily with tongues that seemed too long. As Tristan began to grow anxious to interrupt, they seemed to finish, sitting back on their heels and panting thickly. He restrained himself and waited. This magic was truly unlike Merlin's.

"I trust you won't forget about me, Tristan," Carman said. Her body shriveling up, twisting itself back into its previous shape. "I await my reward eagerly."

With that, all three vanished as the fire rekindled spontaneously.

Tristan blinked. He gathered his nerve and crawled forward to Ellessah to examine her. To his relief, there was no mess of blood. Her wounds looked clean and dry, as if healing undeterred for the past day. The black, fingerlike streaks were gone without a trace. Her cheeks pink and expression gentle and relaxed, he checked her forehead and found her temperature to be cool, perhaps overly so in the dampness of the cave and in her state of undress; but there was no longer any fever.

As general exhaustion set back in, he lay down on the floor next to Ellessah and pulled her in closely to him. Then, with a second thought, he rolled back and snagged the blanket, draping it over them as he curled back up. He would rest for a few hours before trying to press on. If the witch had done what she promised, they had at least that much time to spare. Eyes open, he listened to the sound of Ellessah breathing until his consciousness drifted and his vision blurred seamlessly into sleep.


End file.
